


Know your worth

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Attack, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Lives, Arthur Whump, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, POV Alternating, POV Arthur Morgan, POV John Marston, Sad with a Happy Ending, Serious Injuries, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Time Skips, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: God loves him, Arthur decides,so muchsothat he wants him back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! This is a short, direct and random idea that struck me while I was trying to study. Hope you enjoy, the POVs will change between Characters to show the different ways people react to losing a loved one.

New Hanover was beautiful in its nature. And only its nature. The little places where humans occupy, the small towns, are brutal at best. Valentine always seems to be buzzing with an imminent fight, low-grade crimes littering its short alleyways. Annesburg is simply miserable, the town feels dead as well as looks like it, no matter how many men and women litter the street. It's Grey, it's dull and it has a distinct smell, not quite decay but the stench of people living their lowest lives and drowning their own dreams in pig shit and coal soot.  
  
 _then_  there's Van Horn.  
  
Arthur had first stumbled across it when he was hunting, he'd strayed further north from Saint-Denis and found the little hole-in-the-wall town. Three times as aggressive and five times as miserable as any town he'd happened to have the pleasure of seeing. The fleeting memories he has of Tumbleweed don't even match Van Horn, and that's a statement. It's wet, it's filled with people who have given up, working for a measly amount of money to send to their wife or child. The people carry the weight of the world, drink themselves at night and let it out in useless and unprompted fights.  
  
Arthur doesn't know why he passed by, he was thirsty, and he'd been hunting west of the Kamassa River, running some errands while at it. Mostly helping Albert not die, and a strange man called Margaret find his so-called 'Exotic' animals. It'd been fun, in some ways, Albert was nice to be around, had the air of an intelligent dumbass. Margaret... Well, he's interesting, gave him a gem, and that's all he has to say.  
  
Van Horn had nothing interesting, a saloon and a fence and that's about all of what Arthur can use. He's still on his one week promise, so no need to send a letter to Hosea yet, the post office has nothing to offer, doesn't even know if the clerk there is 'Disheartened' or 'Discouraged' or whatever Trewlawny called it.  
  
Orion, his Ardennes horse, snorts under him, huffing as Arthur slows, the town's miserable color setting a certain gloom on Arthur's mood. Orion is still untrained, still badly tempered and tries to bite Arthur whenever he's not paying attention. The hunting trip was in the sake of bonding with him, he'd stowed Ares in the stable and spent the last few days trying to prevent Orion from biting off Kieran's fingers or fighting with other gang members horses.  
  
He hadn't done much on that front, Orion still hates most, but at least Silver Dollar and Old Belle no longer get hooved whenever they get too close. He'd gotten an earful and a half when the two stallions reared and fought. Orion certainly was something, Arthur had never had such a bullheaded and short-fused horse. But he didn't give up.  
  
Over the course of the hunting trip, Orion seemed to ease up. Arthur can feed him without risking his fingers and he stands still enough that he can brush him down. All in all, Arthur can say he made progress, small as it is,  Orion still bolts whenever he has a chance, on several accounts Arthur had to run and lasso him, but still, progress is progress.   
  
He makes sure that he hitches him tightly, but not tight enough that Orion's constantly bowing. He glared at Arthur, giving a low sound of distrust and bemusement as Arthur digs out a peppermint, extending it as a peace offering "I'll be back soon, boy," he promises, Orion turns away in disinterest and Arthur rolls his eyes, throwing a couple of apples under him.  
  
Shouldering his way into the saloon, Arthur didn't notice how hot it had been until he was shaded. The bar was small, a smaller room connected where a blackjack game is being hosted. The people glance at him but turn away soon enough deeming him disinteresting. A few working women purr at him their own seduction lines, but his silence gives them enough of a response and they move to more willing costumers. The lady at the bar raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to order and he calls for a whiskey, sliding a coin forward which she snatches and summons a shot cup from under the bar. As soon as the cup is pushed towards him, he throws it down his throat, shaking his head as he starts to feel better with the heat of booze burning down his lungs.  
  
The band plays loudly, tucked in a corner with their instruments and playing playful music, yet look as if they're attending a funeral, frowns engraved across their sickly face. He orders another, and another, and decides on the fourth that Orion isn't to be trusted to move him safely while drunk and so he throws a coin to the Bartender as a tip and turns to exit.  
  
His fingers barely brush the door before it slams open, almost smacking Arthur in the face. Arthur swears, hand now close to his chest, glaring at the man that entered, who is soot covered and grim-faced, built like a brick with too wide shoulders and too long legs. He stares at Arthur, who rolls his eyes and tries to step around him. "Watch where you're going," Arthur mumbles under his breath and the man snorts, grabbing Arthur's arm when he's halfway out the door. Arthur pauses, waging whether it's worth it or not. The band had shuffled closer together, the patrons ready to jump at each other.

Or at Arthur.

"Listen, friend, just let me go," Arthur says, pulling his arm away from the man's grip, he's a hair taller than Arthur, jaw pulled tight and lips turned into a scowl. A fight, he's intentionally going for a fight and Arthur is doomed if he doesn't get out  _ _right this second__. The man blocks the door as Arthur makes a move to leave, pushing Arthur back and pointing a demanding finger at him.

 

"You watch your mouth, boy," The man growls and Arthur scoffs before he can stop himself. He's pretty sure he's the older of the two, the word  _ _boy__  isn't close to what he is.

 

"Listen-"

"Shut the fuck up," The man cuts off, charging towards Arthur before he can get out a word. Just as he'd expected, the bar turns on its head. The man pushes him to the ground and Arthur lands harshly on one knee, one of the man's hands clasped on the arm of his vest, shaking him for a moment. It isn't a surprise when the first punch lands on his cheek, snapping his head to the side. What  _ _is__  surprising is the second pair of hands that grappled at him, pulling him to his feet. Arthur tries to take advantage of the movement, kicking out and catching the soot-covered man in the shin but he doesn't manage more than that before people pile around him, all with not too different blood-thirsty glints. The women had filed out, even the bartender had moved to a back room. 

In a fleeting moment of horror, Arthur realizes that he has no way of escaping. His hands are pinned behind his back, the man holding him manically cackling as people start to fold closer. The soot-covered man grabs his collar and all Arthur could do is scowl as a punch lands in the middle of his gut. With little room to recover, Arthur finds his face snapping to the side, hit right in the cheekbone, a quick twin punch lands and Arthur cringes as his teeth rattle. He tries to wiggle out of the man's grip, tries to free his hand but the man has an iron grip on him, and Arthur is left jerking his hand uselessly while getting hit all over his body. His head starts to ache when a punch hits his nose, a sickening  _ _crack__  echoing inside Arthur's mind and he tastes the metallic taste of blood on his lips. They don't pause, instead, they're prompted by the bloodshed, like a wild pack of wolves. 

 

For a second, Arthur's hands are free, only to be grabbed by two different men as a third forces him to his knees. Arthur grunts, barely getting a warning before a knee jams itself under his chin and he's thankful he hadn't thought to talk. He clenches his jaw, blinking at the men around him who give a cheer as a new man grabs him by the hair. Arthur winces when he tugs harshly, forcing him to look up and a fist collides with his eye. His skin sizzles in the aftermath, throbbing for a moment before dulling against the foot that had jammed under his rib, another kicked his arm and a random fist hit his chest. He doesn't bother keeping track of who's doing what, deciding that if he gets out of this alive, he'll shoot damn well all of them. 

For the moment, Arthur twists his arm feebly against the hands forcing him in place. At once point his wrist twists the wrong way, the man tugging at him with a laugh as Arthur slowly gets bloodier and bloodier. 

If they'd fought fairly, Arthur doubts even then he could have taken all of them. He'd watched Davey once fight half a dozen men with Mac's help, he had fought his own crowd before with Javier by his side, but alone? he doesn't stand a chance. He can hit hard but hardly fast. He would've started shooting by now, at least a few warning shots, idly, he takes comfort in the weight of his pistols still in their holsters. Useless they are, at least if he manages to slither his arm out of the death grip on it he can shoot some of the bastards in the face. 

Someone kicks him square middle of his back, and it pops painfully as his face connects with the floor, broken nose burning in pain. He groans, his holster digging into his stomach, and as he gets pulled up by his hair, he stares at the boots of the man in front of him, dazed. The man lets go of him, and he crashes into the ground again, falling on his cheek and coughing when a foot came down on his ribs. Finally, when his head clears for a second, he can feel his arm scratch against the floor and he feels a bit of hope rise in his chest, he pushes himself up slowly, only to get kicked again. He wheezes, falling to his side and swatting away the hands that come to touch him. His hand drops, right beside his pistol and he can swear the metal against his palm never felt so freeing.

He fires as soon as he feels the pistol escape his holster, the men take a step back, startled and Arthur shoots the first man he can, pushing himself as quick as his battered body would allow. The men don’t remain startled for long, drawing their own guns and shooting clumsily. The bullet spray miss by a hair, and Arthur scatters against the floor and gives up on standing. The men shout slurs and insults as Arthur crawls towards the door, charging at it once he’s close enough and stumbling down the steps. Orion stares at him, huffing and stomping at the commotion. Arthur stumbles towards him, tugging at the reins and huffing at the third tug. The people outside join the fight as they find their target and Orion rears as bullets fly close to him, Arthur tries to shush him, the reins finally fall from around the hitching post at the exact moment Arthur feels fire burn his shoulder, the one Colm’s men had shot.

He ignores it, for the moment, Adrenaline and fear drowning his senses as he pulls himself into Orion’s saddle as the stallion charges away on his own accord, pulling Arthur with him. The shots don’t stop, men mounting their horses and chasing them and Arthur swears as Orion defies his orders, charging down the path instead of into the surrounding forest. Sensing that if he demands anymore he’ll be bucked off, he loosens the reins and lets Orion take the lead, twisting himself and shooting with his healthy arm. Some of the men tumble from their horses, the rest don’t stop following, shooting and shooting like they know the bounty on his head, maybe they do, but he doubts it.

Are they really that miserable that they risk their lives to hurt someone else? He had probably given them cause when he shot some of them, but surely not enough that they put themselves in bullets way.

Arthur reloads, his shoulder which had barely healed burning at the slightest movement, and he resolves to resting his hand beside the saddle horn, holding the pistol while he reloads shakily with his right hand. Orion rears, and Arthur barely has a chance to grab onto something before he finds himself falling to the ground, Orion bolting down the pathway and dragging Arthur by his boot. The mud and dirt fly in his face, the rapidly moving ground tearing at his back as he tries to force Orion to a stop, shouting uselessly and trying to tug his boot out of the stirrup, successfully getting it more stuck.

His back burns, skin surly torn and Arthur finds himself regretting taking off his coat and vest, but the day had been hot. No way to change it now, Arthur ponders if shooting the stirrup off the saddle is the way to go, but Orion would be in the way, and he can’t get a steady shot anyway. Thankfully the men give up on the chase, probably assuming what Orion is dragging is but a corpse, at this point, Arthur is sure that that will soon be true.

Orion doesn't stop no matter how hard he tried, and Arthur is dragged along the bumpy roads, doesn't even know where they'll end up, hopefully not Saint-Denis since the alligators there might take a bite off him, but Annesburg doesn't sound inviting either. 

Finally, a good few minutes out of the range of shots, Orion starts to calm down, his gallop slowing to a steady canter. Arthur lets his head drag in a moment of relief and finally, after a few paces, Orion steps towards a tree, bowing down to munch at the grass.

Arthur flexes his shoulder, pushing himself up with a groan as his skin burns, blissful numbness swept away by the slightest of movement. He tries to pull his boot out the stirrup, but gives up when the effort is revealed to be too much, shoulder aching against the bullet, one press tells him it’s still lodged in there. Instead of removing the boot, Arthur forces his leg out of it and Orion stomps at the sudden force, turning and glaring at Arthur, who in turns, glares back with equal bemusement.

Orion snorts, turning back to his grassy meal as Arthur slowly collects himself. He checks his satchel, rummaging through the various herbs he had wrapped together in cloths and the carrots he’d picked for Orion. He’s out of Health Cure, there’s only a small flask with Bourbon in it, and a weak amount at that. He drinks the last of his liquor, throwing the bottle to the side. He doesn’t have much to stop the bleeding from his shoulder, he can still feel the trickle of his blood down the raw skin of his side. He sits for a moment, willing the pain to relieve enough that he can stand up, watching Orion nose at the ground and chop at whatever he pleases.

With a deep breath, he pushes himself off the ground, the world turning a bright shade when he puts pressure on his right foot and he lets himself fall with a huff.  _He should have expected that_  Arthur thinks bitterly, why would life throw anything his way except a handful of obstacles.

Breathing now labored, Arthur decides to slide towards the closest tree, legs dragging uselessly as he slowly pulls himself beside Orion, making sure to keep pressure off his rubbed-raw skin and instead leaning on his arm, head thumping against the bark and he takes a moment to rest, closing his eyes and listening to his surroundings.

Just as he starts to relax, getting a grip on himself, he hears the last sound he could possibly want to hear. Arthur whips his head when he hears it, jumping and pushing himself to his knees as Orion rears and the sound echoes again.

A cougar.

_A goddamn cougar_

_God loves him_ , Arthur decides,  _so much_ _so_ _that he wants him back._

It emerges from the treeline, walking by the trees with a menacing glare. The cougar bares its teeth at him, lunging at Orion first who bolts and avoids the attack. With the first victim escaping, the cougar turns to Arthur, hissing and sprinting. He tries to swing himself to the side as he fumbles with his pistol, tugging it out of the holster and shooting blindly as he closes his eyes.

The cougar lands paws first on his chest, forcing him back to the ground and biting down on his shoulder, his  _cursed fucking_  shoulder that can’t seem to catch a break. His scream is muffled as he grits his teeth, swinging his arm wildly and smacking the Cougar’s head. It leaves his shoulder with another growl as it jumps back, running a circle before glaring at him and lowering its head.

Heart hammering and life flashing in front of his eyes, Arthur desperately grabs his pistol again, not getting a chance to fire before the cougar is on him again, and its paws land on his face, nearly scratching out his eyes as its mouth locks on his side, biting down with incredible force and Arthur could feel the breath physically forced out of him. His ribs break, he can  _hear_ the crack, can feel the ebb of heat before the pain hits.

Satisfied, the cougar moves on to his stomach, locking on his belt and shaking him before its claws dig into his sides, and it gives a growl as it bites at his stomach.

Arthur screams again, head falling back to the ground uselessly as he calls for  _anyone_  to help, at this point, he’d take the bounty hunters that seemed to have been on his heels ever since he stepped into New Hanover.

The cougar lets go of his stomach, previously white shirt now stained a deep red and in a moment of pure adrenaline, Arthur kicks at the cougar with his uninjured leg. It lets out another growl and Arthur takes his chance while he still has it, raising his pistol unevenly and shooting as accurately as his blurring vision would allow. The cougar screams again, taking a few steps that force terror into Arthur's heart, his clip is empty, he has nothing else to defend himself with.

Thankfully, the cougar collapses a few feet away, blood pooling around it as it lies still. Arthur stares for a few seconds, heartbeat hurting against his shattered ribs. He wheezes a breath, head falling onto the soil as he closes his eyes again. Laying there, Arthur can sense everything. The heat of the sun on the road, the rubble against his skin, digging in some of his wounds. His fingertips are numb at this point but everything else radiates in pain, and the sounds of crows awaiting his death echo around his mind. He wonders if someone will find him, wonders if, with his luck, it'll be those Murfree Brood.

Either way, he's going to die.

_He's going to die_ , the realization is numbed by the pain all over his body, right this second, Arthur greets the idea like it’s a lost brother. The edges of his consciousness softening, Arthur can feel his grip on his pistol weaken till the gun slides out of his palm and its soft thump is the last thing he hears before sleep takes him in, covering him into blissful nothingness.


	2. Denial- the first stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Y'all, I wrote this chapter a few months back and just gotten around to posting it. Sorry, i know i suck, but i wasn't confident in it.

It's always been sunny in Lemoyne, ever since they stepped foot in it almost two months ago, Hosea doubts even in winter does the heat break, but these past few days have been especially hot. Most men have either ditched their vests and coats in favor of a thin shirt, Dutch had even taken off his favored dark vest and changed into his old cotton shirt and, similar to everyone around, rolled up his sleeves.

At midday, when the sun is highest in the sky and scorching the lands, Hosea resides himself under the tree with one of the books Arthur had found for him. It’d been four days since his departure to build a camaraderie with his beast of a horse after a particularly rough patch where Orion had put Silver Dollar out of commission and bucked Arthur off while escaping the law, though Arthur would never admit it’s the horse's fault, soft-hearted as he is towards his animals.

Earlier that day, Dutch had wanted to send Charles to retrieve him, something about striking a deal with the Greys, John had been up and about, running too many errands to fill the space that Arthur would have filled as well as his own. It always was like that, whenever Arthur left for over a day, the men would work their share and his, or, alternatively, when they give up on the workload the camp would halt for a moment. It always worked for and against him, having too many responsibilities to leave, but enough of a workload that nobody can object against any type of rest he asks for. 

But these few weeks especially, they'd been overworked. Charles and Lenny had started forcing themselves out to the open. Of course, Hosea and the rest know of their struggles, Javier had talked freely about the type of hardships he'd seen in his brief time in Rhodes. Now, they'd been overworked even  _before_  Arthur left. So it'd been safe to say, when Hosea granted Arthur his week-long hunting trip, Dutch was about to rupture a vein. Although his sense of respect never allowed that he shouts at Hosea, he damn well came close to but instead, he went on his usual shouting match with Molly.

Dutch had talked to him as if he doesn't know that working for two families at once also means working twice the jobs with half the men. As if he hadn't helped Dutch pick and choose who'd work what.

He knows that Bill, John, Javier, and Dutch were working on the Greys, supposedly with Arthur's help before he left.

Hosea, Sean and  _also_  Arthur working on the Braithwaites.

Hosea didn’t like that they had a common between them, he knows Arthur had inadvertently mixed with both families and now both know his alias as well as his face but he also knows he and Dutch would have gone back and forth endlessly about who Arthur should help if he'd push, seeing as he was from the few that had a certain charm and higher capabilities than say, Bill or Micah.

The work had been hard enough but _then_  all that mess with Colm had transpired, and Arthur returned with a ruined shoulder and a high fever. The jobs stopped while Swanson, Grimshaw and whoever had a slight knowledge of medicine flocked to stop gangrene from festering.

He wanted to blame Dutch, Hosea  _knew_  something was wrong when Micah and Dutch returned alone, but Dutch being Dutch assumed that Arthur was invincible and would simply be up and around, doing his usual business and would probably be doing some work here or there. Hosea didn’t like it, even less when the morning broke and no one had seen Arthur, the night guard informing that no one had returned while they'd been up. Then another day had passed and Dutch had been so  _careless_  and it made the uneasy seed in Hosea’s gut grow, and then night had fallen, and Arthur was nowhere in sight. John had taken it upon himself to check Rhodes, returning with a disappointing amount of information. Then,  _finally_ , after another day where  _no one_ had bothered to ask about Arthur's absence except for jobs, Arthur stumbled into camp, and if it weren’t for Karen holding guard, he doubted they would have found him before sunrise.

Dutch had tried to earn back forgiveness ever since, from both him and Arthur. Arthur supplied it too easily but Hosea was still furious, refusing to be as pliant as the enforcer had been. But eventually, as Arthur got better and less fevered, enough that he started to give them all a hard time trying to keep him in bed, he gave in and let up his grudge against Dutch. unsurprisingly, almost instantly, Dutch was back to his bluster about money and work. 

Hosea wasn’t blind, nor was he as wise as he’d like to admit, he knows that the end of Dutch’s tale is their deaths and he’d been trying to spread a quiet word about it, when Abigail had confessed her fear, when John had promised his loyalty, he’d told them his honest opinion.

 _Take the boy and go_ , because he didn’t want Jack to be an orphan, didn’t want to see John’s corpse before he dies. He'd said it frank and honest and without an ounce of doubt behind it. Because he knows this is all coming to an end,  _and Dutch knows it too_ , and some can still be spared. He hadn’t bothered with Bill, nor Javier and certainly never Micah. Those men don’t see anything in Dutch but a great leader, someone who had given them purpose, even if it’s constantly changing and steadily growing bloodier. Lenny had given his advice a thought when he told him he should think up a career for himself. Sean had laughed like it was absurd to have a life outside the gang, but Hosea saw how he looked at Karen straight after, and he went silent for the rest of the night.

Then he’d tried with Arthur, but the boy just gave him a confused frown and Hosea insisted that he take off the stupid facade he’s wearing and start thinking clearer, let the truth about their so-called shared dream and  _see_. He  _knows_  Arthur has his own doubts, but he also knows Arthur will die with the gang, just as he had lived with them. Nevertheless, Arthur can prove to be surprising, and he would never give up easily on him, and  _especially_  him. As much as he likes to preach that he has no favorite, as much as he knows the subtle feud between John and Arthur about who's  _Dutch's_  favorite, he knows  _he does_  have one. And maybe it's because of the extra 5 years Arthur has on John, or because simply Arthur  _understands_  him more, he doesn't know  _why_. John is still as close to a son as he can, he'd die and kill for that boy without thoughts, but Arthur is just...  _something else_. 

The nights are cooler than the evenings or mornings, the temperature drops blissfully, enough that the women no longer fan themselves with whatever their hands fall on and the men don’t wash their faces every other hour. The moon had replaced the sun and Hosea is still under the tree, though he had shut his book long ago, with no lantern nearby to supply enough light for him to continue reading, and he thinks he’d exhausted his ability to read for today, anyway.

Dutch is talking up Micah, Bill is talking about his recent work and flaunting the amount of information he’d bringing in, the fact that he supposedly struck a deal with the Grey’s boys and is on his way to make amends with them. Sean is drunkenly singing while Javier plays his guitar, Karen and Tilly giggle together and Mary-Beth is writing in her notebook. It's relatively calm, aside from the occasional swear that escapes the poker table where John, Pearson, Grimshaw, and Strauss are playing. 

Bill, after finishing his rants, had jogged over to where Hosea sits, beer bottle in hand and asks "When's Morgan gonna come back?", which is expected, but what's  _not_  expected was the explanation that followed "The Grey boys have agreed to settle  things, after the... fire and all that, they were weary, you know, but I managed to convince them that we had no hand in it,"

"What'd you need Arthur for? Take John or...or Sean," Hosea tries, but Bill purses his lips, gets that frown that Hosea familiarized himself with as the beginning of a disagreement, "He won't be back till a few days," he answers anyway, and Bill sighs, what short of a temper he has had run out, and he's readying up to mouth off. 

"Well the Greys are meeting us after tomorrow, and I'm already taking Sean  _and_  Micah, but we need Arthur," He gestures wildly towards Arthur's empty tent, "John's off doing something for Dutch, they ain't told me much, and Javier and the rest ain't too  _welcomed_  by the Greys," he presses further, "can't you send someone for him?" just about to reply, maybe even dismiss Bill, Dutch appears out of virtually  _nowhere._

"Sure we can!" He says, voice cheery, eyes pointedly ignoring Hosea's, "Go tell Charles or Javier, they're our best trackers!"  he encourages, sending Bill with a clap on his shoulder. Hosea frowns, looking down at his book before standing again. He knows he'd been fighting a losing war with Dutch, and Dutch had humored him enough, if he spoke up  _now_  then...well it would still end with Arthur back.

At least he bought him four days, five even; if Charles and Javier set off in the morning. Though, he guesses they'll go as soon as they can, the trail is already thin as it is. But at least it hadn't rained, so the hoove marks are still trackable. 

  -

  

As usual, Hosea wakes up at dawn, just as the darkness fades into a misty brightness and a pleasant chill sets around camp. The sun is missing, but its rays are still shining. Most are still asleep, save for Grimshaw, Tilly, and Pearson, the latter of the bunch preparing breakfast. The smell of eggs and roasting vegetables sedate him enough that he rises out of his bedroll without lingering too much. He stretches his back and instinctively looking to the bedroll next to him, Charles' bedroll, and expectedly, it's rolled up and propped on the crates behind them. 

He figures Javier and Charles set off somewhere around midnight since they'd been around when he had retired to sleep. The coffee is still warm when he pours himself a cup and the bitter taste of too much coffee in too little water wakes him up faster than anything he'd tried in the past (including waking up to a gun in your face, but admittedly, he was half-drunk at the time). Dutch is, strangely, sitting around the campfire, breakfast propped on his knee as he slowly shovels spoonfuls of what looks like porridge into his mouth.

His gaze is somewhere out towards the trees, and Hosea puts on a smile as he saunters towards him, his own breakfast in one hand, coffee in another.  As he drew closer, Dutch glanced at him, throwing him a similar inviting smile as Hosea took his seat on the log. "Good morning, Old Girl," Dutch muses, a smirk drawing on his face, and Hosea rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. 

"Feeling good, today?" Hosea asks offhandedly, and Dutch shakes his head thoughtlessly. He looks better than when they were in Horseshoe, that's for sure, with their grievances behind them, and the promise of gold in front of them; except, so far that promise hadn't been entirely  _visible_  in a way. But after all, hope is a fool's game, and they're the jesters. 

"Ah, as much as I hate to admit it, the time for good days has passed me, Old Friend, what with... Molly and her constant brooding sullying my mood whenever it lengthens," Dutch waves his spoon in the air, before scooping up some porridge and continuing, "But it isn't necessarily a bad day," He adds, then eat the porridge. Hosea nods, looking at the sky above for a moment.

"Heat should break in a few days," he notes, it isn't noon yet, but there's a decent about of clouds in the sky obscuring the sun rays, "Weather like this makes me miss the mountains,"

"Oh, no," Dutch scrunches his face in distaste, "No hell on earth can make me miss those mountains, cold, frigid and hiemal. I almost lost my toe to frostbite," he recounts, mixing the mindlessly the remaining food in his plate. Hosea chuckles, remembering the three days where Dutch simply wouldn't  _shut up_ about his healing feet. He had even been desperate enough to dump the mithering man onto Arthur, excusing himself to go explore. Oh, Arthur looked three minutes away from jumping off the cliff when Hosea returned. It had been one of the first true laughs he'd had in a while, as Dutch finally wore himself out and retired to the bed, and Arthur drank his headache away. Being the chatty drunk he is, he had ranted to Hosea and whoever would lend an ear. 

"Yes, I remember," Hosea bursts into another fit of chuckles, which rattle his lungs but not to the point of coughing. Not yet. Dutch smiles, undoubtedly remembering his own set of memories. "When we do get the gold," Hosea starts, smile still faint around his features, talk of money not weathering it down, "Where will we go?" 

Dutch stares at him, seemingly frozen as he continues to stare, and stare...and then some more. Hosea was starting to worry after a minute that he seriously broke Dutch with his question, he had assumed he would elaborate on his 'West plan' as they called it, but Dutch just...stared. 

Finally, after a worrying minute and a half, Dutch looks away, "I don't know," he admits, "West, I guess, if there's an opportunity," Hosea nods along, deciding to let the conversation die as he eats his breakfast. 

The rest of the day hadn't been anything special, he had rode out to Rhodes to buy some supplies for Silver Dollar, then went ahead and spent an hour grooming him. He didn't have any work to do, things were temporarily on stand by with the Braithwaites, and he had no involvement with the Greys. It was starting to get boring if Hosea was truthful, but he basked in the calmness and carefree attitude he could carry as he invited Lenny for a game of Dominos (which he won, of course, by six points no less). Life wasn't usually as unbusy for him as it was today, even Bill had stopped pestering the camp about the whereabouts of Arthur and Micah was holding his tongue for the most part, though Charles had been involved in a (one-sided) physical altercation with him, and Hosea had never enjoyed himself watching a man get thrown to the ground as much as he had.

Not to say he encourages the men around camp to fight, on the contrary, but he doesn't really...care for Micah as he does with the rest of camp. And it isn't the fact that he'd been with them for only seven months, he likes Charles and he cared about Jenny before she passed. It's the fact that he hates toady people.

In the evening, he finds himself sat on the log on the edge of the camp, watching out towards the sunset, listening to the sounds of wildlife and camp-life around him. Despite awful weather and worse population, Lemoyne sure does have its sights. If you ignore the paling grass, there are sights to be remembered and wildlife to admire. He always liked nature, ever since he was a boy living in his parent's white picket fenced home, where he would stare out the garden where the other boys played and watch with envy, and then turn around and watch the snails in the grass or the neighbor's dog go about its day.

And when the day came where he didn't have a home nor money, he had ridden out and watched the sunset by the river, and then counted stars that matched his hopes till he fell asleep. He never really did waver on his love for nature, and he had discovered several years later when he met a little-too-thin-to-be-healthy boy and watched him slowly shape into a man, that he had passed down his passion.

He doesn't know if it was the several hunting trips, the sightseeing or just the general exposure to the beauty that had made Arthur fall in love with nature just as desperately as Hosea had, but he was glad nonetheless. When his time comes to pass, he hopes Arthur would remember him by the gentle things like nature and wildlife rather than the several men he'd killed and robbed and conned. 

The night didn't bring back Javier and Charles, not that Hosea expected them to return within a day. Arthur is a hard man to track down, Hosea knows so because he had watched Dutch teach Arthur every trick in the book. Arthur by nature likes to wander in random directions whenever he got the urge, never restrained, Hosea himself had had several occasions where he struggled to find the young man. He has no doubt that Charles and Javier are testing their patience with following Arthur's trail, but it's out of Hosea's hands at this point, isn't it?

It had taken two days for Charles and Javier to return.

At that point in time, Hosea had been pestering Sean out the bottle and into the real world, forcing him to go do something other than _sitting_ around and feel sorry for himself. He hadn't even noticed the return until Lenny announced it, and by that point, Javier and Charles had been hitching their horses and...Arthur's horse, but not the man himself. Immediately, Hosea was hyperaware that Orion had blood all over his saddle, and a bleeding wound on his shoulder that looked a few days old at least. Hosea was one of the first to crowd the two men, and the absence of a third almost sent him spiraling. But he chooses to wait, just for a moment, hear what they have to say before panic engulfs him whole. For all he knows, Arthur might be in town, might be simply cleaning up, or healing or a number of things. Maybe he had found a new horse, and Orion was hurt, so maybe he chose to let the horse rest a while. Maybe the blood is an animal's, maybe,  _maybemaybemaybe_

It's a hopeless train of thought that halts once Charles extends Arthur's pistol, the one he proudly brandished after the Gunsmith had engraved, polished and upgraded. The golden barrel was stained with old and dried blood, black engravings mixing with the dirt that seems to have covered the weapon, white grip imprinted with a handprint, painted in blood. 

Now he can panic.

Arthur never leaves a weapon behind, Arthur never leaves  _anything_ behind. And Hosea is now faced with a bloodied, injured horse without its rider and said rider's sidearm and  _blood_  as his only clue as to what happened. "We found a trail of blood, about three miles out of Van Horn," Javier says after a moment, Hosea still holding the pistol, disbelief coloring his face, "The locals say a fight started, and Arthur killed two men as he fled, got shot in the process and three men saw him get dragged by his horse," he pauses, unsure how to continue. 

"Then...we found a-a pool? a pool of blood, and the pistol and Orion, but no sign of Arthur," Javier continued, looking away from Hosea.

"The tracks ended there," Charles adds after a moment, and Javier nods solemnly, and when Hosea does actually  _looks_  at them, he realizes how exhausted they look. They carried the weight of the news all the way from Van Horn to here, and the implications of what they'd found...blood, Orion abandoned Arthur's pistol...abandoned. It reeks of bad implications, and Hosea can feel the mourning air they share, but he can't bring himself to copy it. Because-because-

" _No_ , there has to be an explanation," he tries, maybe Arthur dropped the pistol, or maybe Orion ran out on him and Arthur had to walk away. But blood, lots and lots of blood, staining Orion, staining the horse's saddle, staining the pistol. Maybe-

"We searched everywhere," Charles says, head tucked against his chest as ripple after ripple of dread hit Hosea.

"What if-what if… he could've- he has to have gone  _somewhere!"_  He sounds hysterical, which by the look on the faces of both the men in front of him, he guesses it isn't a look that suits him. He always was the calm one, the rational one, and everything in his hands tells him clear and frank  _Death_.

But  _no._

"I'm sorry," Javier apologizes, and Hosea thinks he never saw the man so tired in his life, "I think Arthur's-"

" _NO"_  It's a shout this time, it takes even Hosea by surprise but he doesn't care, all he can muster in self-control is to not glare at the two men. He tucks the pistol in his hand into his empty holster, dismayed to find that there are flakes of dried blood on his hand. Arthur's blood.  _Nononono, he has to be-._

"Hosea?" Dutch's voice wavers in, concerned. After all, Hosea never shouts  _this_ loud, "What's going on? Javier, Charles, where's Arthur?" 

For some reason, the question brings emotions lunging at his throat, and Hosea thinks, perhaps he's choking on his own disbelief, on his own denial, but then he forces himself to breath; the lump in his throat is still there.

Javier and Charles look discouraged enough, bags under their eyes thick enough that Hosea thinks, maybe  _he_ will be forced to tell Dutch the news. But he can't even bring himself to say it in his own head, nevertheless to someone like  _Dutch_. But he's saved temporarily when Charles speaks up, "We didn't find Arthur,"

"But Orion's...." Dutch trails off and Hosea can just imagine him putting the puzzle pieces together, " _Don't tell me-"_

"There was a gunfight, in Van Horn, and Arthur got shot from what people say," Charles explains briefly, and the silence stretches as Hosea numbly takes out the gun again, turning to Dutch and ignoring the crestfallen expression on his face, instead, he hands him the gun. “We didn’t find a body but… the area is notorious for cougars,” and with that, Hosea’s last ember of hope gets crushed, and he can see Dutch’s eyes drain of life.

_-_

The news spreads like wildfire around camp, and soon enough, there's a certain mood hanging around like a thick mist. Everyone is uncharacteristically silent, and the only sound left is that of grass crunching under feet and the bubble and pop of the stew getting cooked.

Hosea is sitting as far away from everyone as he can while simultaneously being within the camp. Dutch had resided to his tent with Molly kicked out temporarily. She doesn't raise a fuss, stays silent and sits on the shore, just short of having her feet wet by the river. Charles and Javier had been ordered to rest, and it wasn't an hour later that Charles was spotted doing meager tasks around the camp, sleep absent from his mind. Javier, on the other hand, had decided to lay on his bedroll instead of going around camp. Hosea can't judge him, or Charles, he knows the two men were close with Arthur. Just days before, when Arthur was sick of being on bed rest, Javier had taken him to fish in a nearby river, and before that, before the Colm mess, Charles had taken Arthur out to hunt some big game. 

The silence in the air isn't even disturbed by Jack, the boy sitting quietly as Abigail stares off into the fire. Last time Hosea had seen her like this was when John was presumed dead on his year-long escapade.

Hosea wishes this was the situation.

He could deal with the unknown, he could act like Arthur is just  _missing_ if he didn't have proof.

Proof that was now being tended to by Kieran, and offhandedly, Hosea thinks Arthur must have done some type of progress with the stubborn stallion if he isn't trying to bite Kieran's hands off.

It's a bitter taste in his mouth, and he banishes the thought as quickly as it comes to him, deciding that he doesn't want to think right now. Doesn't want to think ever again, it feels like, because at this point, what's the purpose? What will thinking do in regards to Arthur? It won't make him saunter back into camp, won't bring him back from wherever he is. He dreads to think Hell, and just assumes Arthur had done enough good to slither his way into Heaven. It's not enough solace, in fact, just the thought makes the tears that had tried to push their way around his eyelids overflow, and the first tear falls just as the sun began to dip into the horizon.

_They don't even have a body to bury._

-

Hosea distantly knows that he's being absurd, but he stands his ground as he stands in front of Dutch, who looks just as worn out as most of camp. Those who aren't drunk, that is. "Maybe they missed something, Dutch,  _what_   _if they missed something?"_ He presses and presses, and knows by the end of this, one of them will break, be it him or Dutch. But he has to try, because...  _because_ it's  _Arthur_. Because it's their  _son_ , the first  _gang member_ , their  _enforcer._  Because Hosea can't think of  _not_  trying again, and he  _will_ if it takes him days or weeks or months, he will scout every inch of the forest if he has to. 

Dutch stares at him, tired,  _tired_ eyes like he hadn't slept in a month, face dark with the gloom of death, and his mouth ever so slightly turned into a frown. He thinks Hosea is a fool, for sure, the silence ensures it, and maybe he's too tired or too sad or he's actually considering it. But the frown deepens, and Hosea knows deep inside that Dutch doesn't agree, and not that Dutch can stop him, but their sense of comradery stops them from doing something without both their votes. 

Usually, that is.

"Hosea," He speaks so softly, and if Hosea though he looked tired before, oh boy, does he look tired  _now,_ "I-I can't-" Dutch sighs, rubbing at his face with enough furiously that Hosea debates if he wants to wipe out his features or not. Dutch drops his head into his hand, a sure-fire way to show just how exhausted he is, but Hosea doesn’t stop.

“I want a body to bury,” He admits, “I want to see him one last time,”

“I’m sorry,” Dutch whispers and Hosea stares at him, heart heavy with misplaced betrayal.

_He won’t help him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm mostly active on Tumblr, which his samwrittenbysam


	3. Anger- the second stage

 If there’s one thing John can count on, it’s his anger. Always present, always jumping at its chances to display itself. Now, was one of those times where it can truly shine.

He knows that it’s a barrier between him and the hollow in his chest that’s ever-growing.

He knows that if he lets out the sadness that’s simmering under his skin then he’ll get better sooner and that if he keeps holding onto his anger, then he might break.

But…

But Arthur is gone. Arthur is _dead_.

For the first time in… fifteen years, John feels incredibly _alone_. And undeniably _furious_.

Everyone shares the sentiment, he knows, but no one feels the same type of hurt he does. Hosea and Dutch and Grimshaw weren’t snapping at Arthur before he left, they didn’t mock him, they didn’t tell him off, they didn’t treat him like _John_ did.

 John knows, had known for a while, that their line of employment ends in death, sooner or later. For months and months, he’d been trying to reconnect with Arthur, but they’re both stubborn, they’re both angry but for different reasons. Arthur’s anger was explainable, by Hosea’s words, but it wasn’t Hosea’s place to explain, and John was too scared to ask.

For three years, the crack in their relationship grew, and it expanded, and it never stopped chipping away the once warm and reliable brotherhood they had. They were as close as can be, closer than blood brothers, and John ended up ruining it for his own personal reasons. At the time, own, explainable and sensible reasons.

He can’t change that now.

It eats at his heart, sinks metal into it and makes it feel heavy and heady. He knows he’ll snap one way or another, and so he decides that the wood won’t cry if he brings an axe to it. And maybe he chops way too much, Lemoyne is a hot place and they don’t need any more heat, but who would stop him? The strain in his shoulder feels well deserved, and he can’t help but think of Arthur, just a few weeks back, almost at the brink of death because of Colm.

He always said John was the lucky one... 

He chops another log and replaces it.

The sun begins to dip, and the stack of firewood grows impressively. His neck is stiff at this point, and John begins to think again.

Abigail told him that they thought he was dead when he left. They’d even held a funeral and buried some of his clothes. Is this how Arthur felt?

Did he feel so angry? So regretful? Did his heart feel like it’s about to stop? Did his chest hurt even thinking about his name? did he feel betrayed? Cheated?

“John,” A voice wavers through his thoughts, and he slams the axe harder than necessary, “John, please,” Abigail whispers, and another chip in his heart forms. There’s a lump in his throat that feels the size of an orange, choking him. Only then does he register how blurry his word is, he blinks away the tears, reprimands himself for crying. _John Marston doesn’t cry_ , he ain’t a kid no more.

He turns to her, limbs heavy and head pounding. The axe drops between the pile of firewood, enough to keep a fire going for weeks, and notices how hard she’s clenching her jaw.

It doesn’t keep her lip from quivering.

He wants to hug her, wrap her arms around her and tell her that they’ll get through this. It isn’t the first time they lost someone; it won’t be the last.

But…

but there’s the anger burning his blood, fury that makes him clench his fists and turn away. He wants to fight the entire world, bring it to its knees till God comes down and brings a stop to John. His hand _burns_. Itches for the needs to pull the trigger, make _someone_ suffer for all the pain they’d brought to them.

He wants the world to cry.

_He wants to cry._

Most of all… he wants his brother back.

Abigail gets the hint, and he can hear her footsteps walk away as he raises the axe once more, and brings it down on the empty stump.

 

-

Despite how John feels, the day _does_ pass. And the sun _does_ shine. His eyes burn, though, that’s the only change. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, behind his eyelids a slideshow of every wrong he had done plays, every insult he had hurtled at Art-

At…

At _him_ resurfaces, and he gets angry all over again. Angry enough that he doesn’t feel anything but coldness seep into his bones despite the weather. He smokes, instead of sleeping, sits under a tree-just like Ar- _he_ used to do-and watches the water. The camp is quiet, which doesn’t help how out of place these days feel. Pearson isn’t even singing to himself as he chops the vegetables for breakfast. Grimshaw isn’t wearing her makeup, and she’s letting the girls sleep in.

He’s compelled to yell at them, but that's Dutch’s job. Dutch ain’t even doing anything, neither is Hosea. Both in their respective tents and sitting quietly. John throws the cigarette butt, brings a new one to his lips and lights it.

If this is how the days are going to be, John doesn’t want there to be any more.

Arthur’s tent is still up, despite talk of bringing it down and packing it up. John glared at Strauss when he tried to sort the pictures inside until the old man stopped and returned to his station by the medicine wagon.

John is still staring at the river when Jack shyly sits next to him, and John is too tired to tell him off. He doesn’t look at him, taking a deep breath before pulling in a lungful of smoke and puffing it out.

Jack stays silent a moment, and John can see him twiddling his thumbs, playing with a flower he had picked from god knows where. John looks at the kid for a second, and tries fails to see why he harbored so much anger towards him.

Jack looks up, brown eyes surprisingly sad, tiny face pulled into a frown. “Mama said Uncle Arthur isn’t coming back,” He says, and John looks away before he continues, “she said he went with uncle Mac and aunt Jenny, is that true?”

“you mama never lies, Jack,” John replies, trying to force the coldness out of his words. The kid ain’t done nothing to him.

Jack goes silent, and his hands drop to his lap, flower falling to the ground. John looks at him again, and his heart gives a firm squeeze when he spots the tears. His hand twitched, and he tries to reach out to the kid, knowing full well that he doesn’t know how to show affection but _goddamit_ he ain’t going to let this kid cry.

“I head uncle Javier say he’s dead,” Jack says, his voice whiny as his face splotched with tears, and John is left speechless. He never had a talk with the kid about mortality, reckons no one did seeing as the boy is only _four_ and has no business seeing half the shit he’d seen.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” John whispers, and Jack shuffles closer hesitantly. John never fancied himself a father, especially to Jack seeing as to how hard he tried to distance himself from him, but this is him just being a good human being. Kid’s grieving, and he knows what kind of man treats a sad kid harshly. A kind of man John doesn’t want to be.

So, he lets Jack fall into his chest, wrapping him up in a hug as Jack lets out a tiny sob. For a moment, John thinks of doing the same.

_See what you’ve done, Arthur?_

-

Eventually, John gets sick of smoking under the tree. Mostly, he’d gotten sick of the sadness filling the air back at camp. He takes it upon himself to ride into Rhodes and get some supplies that they are missing, even if they don’t need it direly. He needs a change of scenery.

He doesn’t know why he thought Rhodes would help, though. Town is as miserable as they come, at least Valentine had some freedom to it, least colored men could walk through it without getting neck to neck with raiders.

How he would love to bump into a few of the raiders. Maybe it’ll help him vent out some of his anger, shooting racists ain’t never been wrong.

Arthur…

He had…he had spoke about them white hood racists, how he had torched them and shot every single on of them. Said they’d always pop back up, no matter how many times he’d burn them down…

Maybe John could continue that legacy.

Unfortunately, John buys all the supplies and pays without any of that happening. He debates hunting some of the Lemoyne Raiders down and bring them their death, but ultimately, he ends up fastening the goods on Old Boy’s back and wandering around Rhodes, looking for a bounty or anything to do.

“Hey, hey, you!” an old man waves at him, one pantleg sawn under the thigh. John knows the old Vet, thinks that Arthur…Arthur said something or other about him.

“Whatchu want?” John spits with more poison than he’d intended, the Old Vet waves him closer, and John complies.

“Ain’t you friends with that Yankee?” He asks, and John stares at him in confusion, “You know him, I’ve seen him ride in with you! Tall and brooding? Real pouty?” It sinks straight into his lungs who the Vet is talking about, and John nods with a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Yeah, I know him,” He confirms, and the Vet leans in closer.

“You and your friends should leave,” he whispers, “couple of them high and mighty lawmen came lookin’ for you,”

“What’d they want?” John asks, knowing deep down _what_ they want.

“Nothing good, I supposed, was looking for that Dutch Van Der Linde, showed me a picture. Was one of the men your friend came into town with,” The Vet answered, and John’s heart sinks deeper. Of course, Milton and his friend hunting them down. Picked a good time to get close, too, with everyone so thrown off with their recent…loss.

God, if they find them now… ain’t no telling what’ll happen.

“Thank you, friend,” John tips his hat, backing away towards Old Boy before he pauses, turns back and asks, “why’d you tell me?”

The Vet stares at him for a moment, before shrugging, “Before your friend, ain’t no one lent an ear to me. I would’ve starved if it weren’t for him,”

-

John is off of Old Boy before they even reach the other horses, pausing when he spots Arthur’s beast of a horse lying by Arthur’s tent. He shakes his head, focusing on the information he’s got while he storms up to Dutch, who’s staring at his tent wall emptily.

“We’ve got a problem, Dutch,” 

Dutch looks up at him, face blank and gaze far away, and says blandly "don't we always?"

-

The camp was up and ready to move before the day was done. And all that remained is _where they would go_. Normally, _someone_ had a spot in mind. Usually, Arthur would scout it and spend the night. But even Hosea’s drawing up blanks, and ain’t none of the others been around these parts long enough to know.

That is, until Lenny speaks up.

“We emptied a place,” he says, and everyone pauses their brainstorming to listen, “me and…me and Arthur, when we brought in those guns, place should be empty, we killed all them Lemoyne Raiders that were there. Rode past it a few days ago, ain’t no one there.”

And that was that, Lenny had gone with Charles to check the mansion, and the caravans were on their path.

-

The new place feels…

Odd.

Aside from the mosquitos and the alligators constantly groaning, it’s not too far from usual. _However_ , it _is_ four walls and a roof, which is a luxury they only find rarely.

John even gets his own room. John _never_ gets a room for himself, because _Arthur_ is always above him on the list. Seniority, Dutch once called it.

It doesn’t feel right to take it. Feels too soon to even _begin_ thinking about taking Arthur’s things.

He gives it up to Hosea, instead. But even _he_ gave up the offer, it became a small silent agreement that no one claims the room, and John takes his usual spot in his tent.

Dutch had changed up his routine, changing into a dark shirt for once with one of his darker vests. Officially starting his mourning.

He hadn't done that since Annabelle.

He had asked John to join him to check out Saint-Denis with an empty look in his eyes, and John knows he wouldn’t have been the first choice if…. If Arthur were around.

It doesn’t sting like it used to, he’d rather be the second choice if it meant Arthur was still around if it meant he could _apologize_.

Nevertheless, he agreed.

The swampy air had thickened, and everyone was still stowing in their misery.

Abigail had been giving him that sad look, same sad look she’d give him when he’d leave her before Jack was born.

He was choking on nothing, and he’d been getting more and more pent up. It’d only been a week since the news had arrived, and there are months and possible _years_ in front of him where he’ll have to live with the fact that…

 _That_ …

 _ **That**_ _Arthur is_ **dead**.

 _He’s dead._ And he ain’t never coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is Samwrittenbysam!! Feel free to send any requests or asks!


	4. Bargaining- the third stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please point out any wrong pronounce used, I don't write female POV's a lot, so my hand is used to write 'he' instead of 'she'

They had moved, and it doesn’t feel right.

 _Nothing_ about these few days have been feeling right, a whole 20 years have been swept away from under her feet and she couldn’t even save it. Susan never pitied herself as a crier but…

He was as good as her son. She had been there ever since his first day in the gang, fed and schooled him alongside Dutch and Hosea. She watched him _grow_. She never thought she would outlive him.

It’s all very… _disorienting_. Like the world had titled and stilled, every waking moment felt too hazy to be true, and her mind betrays her with thoughts that only bring her pain.

What if he’s suffering out there? Alone? And they had just given up on him? Is it too late on sending a search party?

What if he’s alive? And they’d left him behind, moving away without a hint to where they’re going?

Her view had shifted dramatically, and despite what she so strongly fights against, she takes things slowly. Doesn’t pester the girls like she used to. She can see Mary Beth crying when she thinks no one is looking, catches Tilly staring ahead blankly until someone would snap her out of her haze. Even Karen, who was closer to Arthur more than she’d like to admit, pummeled straight into the bottle.

Susan didn’t have the energy to help any of them, she tried to do her work, but everything seems to have slowed a couple of notches.

The clothes are still cleaned and the stew still boils. But no one really cares, the stew is often half full by evening, and Pearson only cooks one pot instead of three.

Worse yet, there was no solace. In his death, she means. From what they’d heard, he was gunned by angry townsmen and possibly mauled by a cougar. It’s an end nobody would wish upon their worst enemies, Susan surely would never, and she was one of the more… _action-loving_  ones between the gang.

He deserved better.

-

Another morning breaks, and Grimshaw wakes up to silence. She missed the chatter and buzzing that had always been around before, Tilly and Mary-Beth chattering, Dutch and Molly fighting, even John and Abigail squabbling. Now, it’s only the lazy scrape of Pearson’s knife against animal bones, and occasionally, the sound of Charles fussing around the wagons and fixing them up.

She only fixes up her hair, washing her face and spraying herself with perfume before pouring herself a cup of coffee and residing in the broken-down gazebo, where Hosea is already sitting; staring at the first page of one of his books. His hands were wrapped tightly around his coffee cup, which looks like it had gotten stale.

 They don’t speak, in fact, Hosea doesn’t even look up from his book.

She doesn’t mind, she knows how off-centered he must feel; thrown off the scale of normalcy. Between both of them, they shared the mindset that they won’t see Arthur’s passing. It would make sense, seeing as Arthur was young, younger than Bill, younger than Micah, younger than Javier. He wasn’t as old in the grand scale of things, to Hosea especially, seeing as the man is pushing well into his sixties.

The gazebo is as silent as the rest of camp, only the idle sounds of Jack throwing rocks at a tree filling the air, and it should be suffocating but Susan finds herself marveling at how titled the world feels beneath her.

She probably could have saved him, if she stalled him enough, distracted him by chores as she often does. Susan wishes that she could chalk up his death like she tried to chalk up Mac, Davey and Jenny’s. Just a bad job, something went wrong, a fluke in their plans.

But Arthur headed out on his own free will, with Hosea’s blessing…

And maybe that’s why the old man is taking it so hard on himself. Connected two dots wrongly and ended up in the blame, grief does strange things, even to the wisest; and Hosea is human after all.

A part of her wants her to believe that this was fate, that she couldn’t have changed the fact that he had to die, by fate’s woven irreversible promise. If not that day, then maybe the next in a worse way, and they could stall, but he would die eventually.

At the same time, though, her heart screams that they’re _all_ living on borrowed time. They all face the same dangers; they all have a target painted on their backs. Why did _he_ have to be the one to go? It simply _isn’t fair_.

Worst yet, the simmering gentle blow of anger that slithers every now and then between the fog of sadness and shock can’t be directed at anything. They can’t wipe out a town from existence, they can’t cleanse an area of its sins. If it were Pinkertons, perhaps they would’ve been already painting the walls with their blood. But it isn’t, and they can’t do anything about it.

-

The air settles warmly on their skin as the moon climbs towards its perch in the sky, and Susan is holding on tight to a picture.

The picture in question is several years old, had been hidden between dresses in her clothing chest, but it’s still clear despite the browning edges.

Arthur stares at her, eyes closed by a grin that stretches wide across his face. Copper is in his arms, unshaved and still just a puppy, entirely too small to be normal, but his dark eyes are glittering and his ears are flopping while his nose is buried in the crook of Arthur’s elbow. He had been only twenty, still skinny and filled with anxiety to the brim, but he was getting better at trusting people.

She remembers the day the picture was taken, Hosea had trotted in with a whining bundle in his arms and called Arthur over. She had never seen the boy smile so wide for so long, he was entirely too sweet to the dog; ended up as a nuisance because he could just crawl into Arthur’s lap and the boy would defend his every wrong.

They were all glad for Copper spreading happiness through their small little family.

The picture now is all she can stare at, not even thinking anymore, head empty with a strange throb as she takes in every detail of Arthur’s face. His still uncrooked nose, the healing scar on his chin, the way his hair fell over his forehead from under his hat. Looking so-so happy.

She bites her lip when it threatens to quiver, closing her eyes. She could swear the ghost of his laugh is at her ears, filling up the silence in her mind.

Susan lets her tears flow, teeth digging into her lip painfully so she wouldn’t let a sound escape her. She could visualize him, twenty years younger, hair greasy and skin sticking to his bones. Eyes dark with mistrust and fears, eating quietly as Bessie sits beside him and fills the stoic silence between them.

Her head drops, as well as her heart. Susan’s uphold breaks, her shoulders sagging as she gently places the picture on her lap and cradles her face. Letting out a single sob before her lungs seize, and her throat constricts and she feels like her sadness and regrets have manifested into a ball blocking her airways.

She can hear Arthur’s gentle laugh in her mind, echoing, but instead of happiness, it stabs at her heart with the sharp knives of longing. His eyes glitter in her mind, smile wide, face bright with delight. An image of him slowly invading her mind, and she would give up her most precious belongings, her soul, her mind, just to see it again. Just to give him a strong hug, well deserved, to hold him tight one more time and tell him how much she truly cares, how much she is ready to bargain for his life.

If she could just tell him if she wasn’t so blinded by her assumptions.

But it’s too late, and the realization sends another pin to pierce her heart, and she looks up at the sky for answers, only finding the moon hidden by dark clouds, the stars invisible.

-

It’s still dark, midnight, and she had composed herself enough to wipe away the tear stains and tuck the picture back in a safe place, but his image is still burning behind her eyelids, a grim reminder of what she had taken for granted.

The campfire is warm, and it had been enough for her to get lured into sitting amongst the others.

“Sometimes…” Javier starts, voice quiet as he puts down his guitar, which had been playing a happy little tune… the one everyone knew was Arthur’s favorite, “sometimes I think there’s no paradise at the end of this,” he confesses, and Susan doesn’t look away from the fire as she listens.

Most are sitting by, Charles and Bill under their tent, Javier by the log, John and Lenny on the ground and the girls beside her.

It’s only a _little_ comforting.

“Sometimes I think that there is _no_ end to this,” John buds in, and a ripple of uncertainty washes over them, the silence that envelops them isn’t uncomfortable; only questioning.

“You think… where do you think he is?” Lenny asks, “I ain’t a firm believer, but… I’d like to think there’s something waiting for us after, you know?”

“He was as good as any of us can be,” Charles answers swiftly, “Tried to do good, at least, in the end,” Charles throws the stick he’d been whittling into the fire, “I hope he’s…better off, now. Life was never easy on him, from what’ve seen and been told…” he gives a sigh, standing and bidding his goodbyes before he retreats into the woods.

“We ain’t good men,” Bill says, stuttering only slightly, “but… but he was one of the best between us… and I guess if anyone’s going to heaven, could be him,”

“Amen to that,” Karen slurs, raising her beer, “we should… we should toast, to honor… _you know_. His life and what he was…” The group nods in agreement and those who haven’t been drinking grab drinks for themselves.

Grimshaw grabs the whiskey bottle from the crate, raises it high as the gathering follows suit.

“To Arthur,” Mary-Beth says firmly.

“A friend,” Javier adds.

“A mentor,” Lenny follows up.

“a brother,” John says gruffly, and Grimshaw takes a deep breath.

“and a son,” she finalizes, and the gang dips their drinks before raising them again.

“To Arthur,” they shout in unison, each taking a gulp of their chosen drink, Grimshaw gulps down her whiskey and listens solemnly as Javier picks up his guitar again, starting a slower tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda teared up in the middle, ngl, but i hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Tumblr: Samwrittenbysam


	5. Depression- the fourth stage

The funeral date arrived. Officially, they hadn’t set a date, they just progressively went through the steps. Hosea had practically dragged him out of his room, forcing him to help with picking the location for the grave. He hadn’t seen Hosea much, mainly because he’d been hiding from the world ever, and it was jarring to see how hardened he became. Much like with Bessie, lacking the alcohol, he seems cold and distant. They don’t speak to each other much, mainly follow John and Charles as the ride away from the swamps and towards the sunnier and less thick-aired lands.

Where the grass is greener, so to speak. 

Charles knows a few spots Arthur preferred, up towards Grizzlies East. As they rode up, Dutch can truly see why Arthur liked it, fields full of colorful flowers, trees standing tall and bright, wildlife undisturbed. Far away from everything he hated, far from their troubles. By the look on Hosea’s face, Dutch thinks that they found the spot. Everything about it screams Arthur, and it somehow brings a warm ache in his chest.

He can almost imagine it, Arthur, sitting under a tree writing or drawing in his journal. Maybe even sleeping under the wide stretch of open sky, watching the stars. Him. Just…him being himself, far away from the threat of a gun and far away from the roles he has to play. There’s one large tree that sits just by a cliff side, sprouting several branches that almost look like an elaborate crown. Small, colorful flowers littering the grass. “Here,” Charles says, turning towards them, “he used to come here often, said moose like to frequent the area…” Charles shakes his head, “he liked to watch them”

“I think it’s perfect,” Hosea looks towards Dutch, then John, who both nod, “It’s perfect for him,”

-

The grave is dug, and all that’s left is to bring the headstone Abigail and Javier carved and place it. Karen and Mary-Beth had tearfully gone through some of Arthur’s belongings, handed Dutch the picture of the three of them, as well as Copper’s picture. There had been a picture tucked between his clothes, the one he, Bessie, John, and Annabelle had taken together so many years ago. That one was taken by John for safekeeping.

In the end, they had decided to bury Arthur’s coat, the duster coat he had worn ever since he was around twenty-one.

It was almost done.

It was almost fully official.

-

 

Today marks a month since the new hit.

An entire month has passed, August had been swept into September. Feels more like a decade has passed, but the hurt hadn’t subsided yet. They’re still in shambles, and sourly, Dutch things that this is the type of ‘laying low’ Hosea and Arthur wanted. No motion, no progression, stuck in place with all the sentiments strangled behind a fog of sadness.

No matter, that.

They were gathered today, most have left camp to attend the funeral. They had gone completely silent on the ride up to the Grizzlies, some had brought flowers, others just silently watched as John and Javier closed the grave. The headstone was placed, grey and cleaned, Arthur’s name engraved on it with a little dedication itched under. Something was stuck at the back of Dutch’s throat, some odd lump he couldn’t swallow as he watched Hosea gently place the banquet he had picked ontop.

Maybe it was the atmosphere or the destroyed look Hosea gave him as he looked up, but the scales  tipped inside him, and Dutch couldn’t help but let his lip quiver as he knelt beside Hosea. His vision was blurring but at least he wasn’t letting out the sobs that choked him. He just… he just can’t imagine it.

He can’t digest it like the others are, he’d been shoving away every thought that circled back to Arthur, every memory that threatened to shatter his resolve. He had shoved the world away in favor of solitude in an attempt to deny the facts and replace them.

It didn’t work, it never did. He often found himself holding the small objects he had collected throughout the years, objects that more likely than not tie back to Arthur. Most commonly, the newspaper clippings he keeps on him. They’re as close to the past as he’ll get, reliving the small moments as the outer world crumbles and flies away from his grasp.

He hadn’t cried, not until now, with his shoulders shaking and his eyes blurring as he tries to read Arthur’s name again and again. Maybe it’ll summon him into the real world, bring him back to him.

His cheeks ache from holding back his sobs with a deep frown, and he could feel Hosea’s shaking hand latching onto his but it doesn’t bring him any relief. He hadn’t faced loss like this in… in forever, Annabelle hadn’t hurt him as much, he had loved her, oh so deeply but her death brought him anger and a sick thirst for revenge, when the fog had released him, it’d been long enough that he had found peace.

There was **no** peace with Arthur’s passing, just utter devastation. He had no one to pin the blame on, a faceless gun to a faceless man, a possible animal between dozens that lurk. In the end, he finds no one to blame but himself.

He could have gone with him, and maybe then they would’ve emerged alive, or at the very least died together. He should’ve told him to stay, damn the horses.

His head is hung, now. The idea of the headstone too unsettling, something deep within him pulls him to just… close his eyes, sleep it off. Maybe when he wakes up everything will be set right, and if not, maybe he can sleep long enough that the ache in his chest would have faded by the time he wakes. 

The sun is too bright, the air is too _perfect_ , everything around him feels too _normal_. Somehow, all those novels Hosea would read to Jack, and before, to John and Arthur, always made him think that the weather would change to accommodate how he’s feeling. A storm of emotions, whirlwinds of crippling sadness, rain full of anger. Anything other than the calming breeze that sweeps by, and the uncaring chirp of birds.

It’s too _serene_.

-

Dutch ends up staying till the sun dips behind the mountains, most have returned, those who hadn’t sit around the grave silently. Their tears have stopped a good while back, and all that’s left is a gaping hole where Arthur’s presence is lost. Somewhere in his mind, Dutch is already constructing every way he could excavate his emotions, dig them behind ten layers of anger, just like he did with Annabelle.

Hosea taps him on the shoulder when the pink and orange sky is shaded by the blue hue of the night, stars shining bright as the breeze settles with a chill. “We should head back,” he says, making no move to stand from where he’s resting. Dutch glances at the gravestone, Arthur’s name staring holes into his soul. He’s not ready to leave yet, the idea makes something in his gut churn. His hand fists the dirt underneath him when sharp swords stab at his heart.

He can’t leave, _not yet_.

“You should,” he mumbles, not failing to take notice of how Hosea straightens beside him.

“I’m not leaving you here, alone,” Hosea rebuttals, shifting into a more comfortable position.

“It’s safe, no one would recognize me here,” Dutch argues back, voice eerily calm even to his own ears, almost hollow. It’s the most he’s spoken in a good chunk of time.

“Yes, but that’s not what I fear,” Hosea sighs, and Dutch looks up at the crescent moon, blinking silently as Hosea’s boot clink together while he stands. “John, Charles, you take the rest and head back home,” Hosea directs. Dutch looks back in time to see Hosea turning towards him, “We’re going to stay tonight,”

“You don’t have to stay,” Dutch points out, and Hosea fixes him a glance, eyes calculating before his shoulders drop.

“I want some more time,” he admits, “just… we’ll leave early tomorrow,” this time to John, who looks worse for wear as he dusts his pants off feebly.

  
“Stay safe,” Charles says with a nod, as John drags his feet while he walks towards Old Boy. For the first time in a month, something other than absolute negativity sparks in his chest. _Gratitude_ , it’s warm and settles nicely against the iciness of grief.

The stomping of hooves fade away as Hosea slowly makes his way back beside him, Dutch finally faces him fully. Hosea looks at him with equal amounts of tiredness glistening in his eyes. It reminds him bitterly that he’s not the only one who lost _him_.

  
“You remember that time…” Dutch begins, surprising himself as a memory pops from behind the barricade in his mind, bittersweet and warm, “When… when Bessie and Annabelle were teaching John how to use the first aid?”

  
Hosea hums, giving Dutch a knowing look before drifting to look at the grave, “Arthur was there,”

  
“Yeah,” Dutch’s voice wavers ever so slightly, “and he kept poking fun at the kid,” he’d been barely thirty at the time, Arthur only beginning his twenties. Still, he still retained that slight childish delight of tormenting his younger brother.

  
“John threw the bag at him,” Hosea completes, head dropping to his chest for a moment, “broke his nose,”

  
“Got to be John’s first live example,” And he was no bit happy about it, “grumbled until John gave up and left him to treat himself,”

  
“Don’t think he had warmed up to John still,” Hosea says. Dutch shakes his head, disagreeing.

  
“I think he cared for him from the start,”

  
“not the very beginning,” Hosea argues, “John was a little nuisance, feral little kid,”

  
“Arthur didn’t even call him by his name for the first few months,” Dutch smiled slightly, but it’s far from happy. “I think the first time he ever used John’s name was to cuss him out,”

  
“ ‘twas when he had to climb a tree to get him down, if I remember correctly. Fell a good couple of feet because John kept on kicking,” they share a small chuckle at the shared memory, and Hosea sighs afterwards, something weighing on both of them. The four of them hadn’t been close ever since that winter storm before they arrived to Blackwater, and things seemed to worsen as the events rolled by.

  
He doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen John and Arthur squabble in good nature, or the last time he and Arthur went out to shoot bottles together. It’s been a work only relationship for too long, and in between he’d lost the connects they’d had. Sure, he’d call Arthur his son every once in a while, but it had gotten to be a habit rather than in true meaning.

  
It stings.

  
“I want to apologize,” Dutch blurts out, as he often does when he’s alone. Or with Hosea. “To… Him, I wanted to apologize,” it sounds like a lost sentence even to himself, and lost is exactly what he’s feeling right now. He made so many wrong turns that he’d gotten _himself_ lost, and he still has Hosea and John and the rest of the gang… but…

  
But there’s a certain place in his heart for Arthur, his first ‘son’, his protégé that was so brilliant on his own that Dutch didn’t even need to do anything but push him towards a pen and paper, put a few words into his mind and a gun in his hands. Everyone in the gang had gone through a transformation, from sad drunks to strong outlaws, from lost foreigners to infamous gunslingers, from underfed children left in the gutters to mother and fathers.

  
Then there’s Arthur, who was a skinny, deathly afraid sixteen year old that fit more as an eleven year old, to one of the strongest people Dutch could rely on. From an orphan who shuddered at the thought of kindness being offered to the gentle soul Hosea fought to preserve, to the Outlaw who never really turned brutal. Then a father, then a widower, and climbed out of several heartbreaks still strong and reliable and so purely _himself_.

  
Even Hosea didn’t escape the clutches of change after Bessie’s death, he’d gone colder towards some notions, softer towards others. Arthur had been cold for a solid year towards _everything_ but he came back unchanged as he slowly relearned how to live without his son.

  
Nothing can change the permanent pride that always burned in Dutch’s chest whenever he saw Arthur, actually _saw_ him, the man he’d become. It bites at him that he’ll never truly get to say how much he’s proud. Arthur never got over his self deprecation, a system installed so kindly by none other than Lyle Morgan and the bastards who never took kindly to street urchins. Hosea had tried his best to help, soothed the open wounds Arthur wore with gentle words.

  
Dutch thought he did his best, but it nags at him that he _didn’t_.

  
“Do you want a few moments alone?” Hosea offers, and Dutch smiles bitterly, a weak attempt at holding back his guilt.

  
“It’s no use now,” he says quietly, “We should probably start a fire”

  
\--

  
The night settles cold, finger tips turning numb as the fire send small waves of heat towards them, where they set up their bed rolls.

  
It’s been forever since Dutch had slept away from camp, few years at least. Arthur’s grave is close enough to see, but not close enough that the small camp they’d set would taint the land. Hosea had gracefully acted asleep as Dutch poked around the fire aimlessly, looking up at the grave every once in a while. It’s almost magnetizing, his mind constantly going back to it, like a loop of trying to forget and desperately remembering.

  
He doesn’t want to get lost in a fantasy but doesn’t want to face reality, a duality he has no energy to sort out. He’s cold from inside out, and the idea of facing any problem is daunting. _Problem_ is, there’s so many tasks he needs to _accomplish_.

  
The Pinkertons are still trying to get them, they probably don’t know about Arthur’s passing nor would care, they’d probably _celebrate_ it, one less Outlaw degenerate to chase after, one less gun to shoot back.  
They probably don’t think of them as humans, they probably don’t even think they deserve to live. _Savages_ , Milton always called them, screamed it too back in Blackwater while mowing them down.

At least they had a purpose, at least they know that the other side is human too.

  
“You’re doing it again,” Hosea’s voice breaks through his thoughts, Dutch shoots him a confused glance, watching as the older man propped himself on his elbows, “You’re riling yourself up, can feel you simmer in your own thoughts even from over here,” he explains, coughing into his palm as he pulls himself out from under the covers.

  
“Sorry,” Dutch mumbles, not looking up as Hosea rounded to sit beside him, crossing his legs, “how’s the cough, by the way?”

  
“ ‘S fine,” Hosea swats a hand in the air, and Dutch looks away when he coughs again, “used to it by now,” he adds, and Dutch can feel a part of him shrivel up. It’s been known for months now that Hosea’s cough isn’t subsiding, and they hadn’t thought much past a consistent cold until the coughs crippled him for short amounts of time. Dutch had pointedly ignored the thought of disease, after all, a bullet is their written exit.

  
_Now_ though.

  
_Now_ he doesn’t know, isn’t too sure about _anything_. Hell, he thought he’d be seeing Arthur be a farmer or rancher by his side somewhere out west, thought that he’d grow old and die with his family around him. Happy and safe.

  
At least that’s what he dreamed of, something always pushed him away from taking the first step, though. Never a man of commitment, can’t hold down a camp, can’t hold down an idea. Jesus, he’s lucky he found people who even like him and stuck around so long, and he fears he might lose one of the last remaining beacons in his life.

  
If God desired Hosea to leave the plain earth behind and join Arthur wherever he is, then Dutch might as well give up. John doesn’t even like him like he used to, hasn’t for a while, never liked his plans and never shied away from breaking them down into flaws.

Not necessarily a bad thing, but something he only accepted because Hosea and Arthur were there to _help him accept it._

  
“We should see you a doctor,” Dutch says, and Hosea hackles a laugh, before coughing harshly and spitting on the ground, “seriously,”

  
“It’s going to be fine, Dutch, I’m an old man, happens sometimes,” Hosea tries to divert, but Dutch shakes his head.

  
“If it’s something curable then we better start curing, Hosea, if it’s not then… then we should see about giving you the longest time” it feels like blasphemy even saying it. But the swamps have weighted down even on a Dutch’s lungs and as far as he knows, they’re as healthy as they could be.

  
“Dutch-“

  
“please? Just… just to make sure?” he pleads, and Hosea’s shoulders fall, Dutch pokes the fire again when he realizes he has won.

  
“sure,” Hosea nods, looking up towards Arthur’s grave. Dutch glances at him, blinking in confusion and following his line of sight when Hosea’s awestruck face surprises him. His eyes fall onto the grave, as they have so many times before, but he realizes now why Hosea looked so shocked.

  
Just beside the headstone, right where the flowers had been purposefully left untouched, a small fawn sleeps besides a large stag. It almost looks like an Elk, but it’s too small to be an adult one. The father raises his head when he takes notices of the two men gawking at them, and it’s beady eyes twinkle in the starlight, the fire reflecting slightly in its eyes as it settles again, rolling to its side when it decides they’re no danger.

\--

  
It’s barely dawn when they pack up their things, begrudgingly. Somewhere around midnight an eerily calmness rained over the two men, every emotion pulling in waves inside them disappearing as they watched the stars tirelessly.

  
They hadn’t slept, not really, alternated between swapping stories and pointing out stars. The stag hadn’t moved by dawn, and Dutch was tempted to give the grave one last goodbye before leaving but decided to let the wildlife guard the remnants of the man Arthur was.

  
All packed up and ready, Hosea leads them back to camp as they slowly remember that responsibility need to be carried, and people need to be cared for.

  
“I think I heard of a stage running by in a few days,” Hosea says, and a fresh wound digs into Dutch’s chest. _Back in business_ , it seems “I think it’ll have enough to get our food supply back up.”

  
Even though Dutch feels no draw towards the idea, he sifts through the most fit men that still remain with them, “I’ll send Lenny and Javier to check it out,” he replies, and Hosea nods once solemnly, “You think… you think…” the question dies on his tongue, Hosea turning curiously towards him, “you think we’re ready to get back to fighting?” he asks, and Hosea’s face twists.

  
“No,” he answers truthfully, and Dutch can hear his hopes crack and crush under the weight of one word, “that’s why we won’t,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is Samwrittenbysam!! Feel free to send asks or requests over there! 
> 
> Last chapter will sadly take longer because I'm still working on how to construct it like I want :)


	6. Welcome home, son- finale.

The Sun was high in the sky, boring down onto the small clearing where the horses stood. Quintin was bowing down into the river, tail swishing as Cal lead Quinton, Quintin’s twin, to the water. They were prepping up, Charlotte had already readied the wagon, and with little guidance, Cal brought down enough game that they can store and travel with.

“You alright to go?” Cal asks, picking up the rifle that has been propped by the tree, “Should take a day or two to go down into Lemoyne, but we’ll stop in Annesburg,” he says, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “Charlotte and I will take rounds to sit back”

“You don’t need to, I can take care of myself,” He grumbles, scratching idly at the cast riding up his foot.

“Says the man dressed in more bandages than skin,” Cal retorts, taking a seat beside Arthur, “How’re you feeling, anyway?”

“Right as rain,” Arthur sighs, “Just…” he trails off, he’s worried, mostly, he misses home. It’s been too long since he left. Ever since that O’driscoll kidnapping they’d been through; Hosea and Dutch have been diligent over who goes out for how long. From Cal and Charlotte’s calendar, it’s been over a month, almost bordering on two. He said he won’t be out long, lie that was.

In his defense, he didn’t plan on getting fucked up as he is.

In his defense, he didn’t think he’ll be confined to a chair for a goddamn month and a half. Ain’t even on his feet yet, cast ankle aside, he’s too weak to walk on his own, somehow his shoulder linked to his leg, both seemed to hang limb for a long, long time. Long enough Arthur started to think he won’t be able to use them again.

Weren’t for a few weeks ago that he finally lifted a spoon on his own, managed to feed himself without spilling half the bowl on his shirt. Embarrassing, that’s what it was, learned after a while that there ain’t no shame around Cal and Charlotte though, between bathing, changing and dealing with his business, there isn’t a think or way Arthur could embarrass himself in front of them now. Seen more of him than most people back at camp. Which is… odd to think about.

Didn’t even take his payments, the few bucks he managed to scrabble and scratch out of his ruined pockets, if they weren’t sullied by blood, they’d been crumpled beyond belief. Weak as his offers were, least they were _something_. They didn’t even want his gratitude and thankfulness. Granted, he ain’t much to take by, especially now as he is, but he’s sure that _someone_ or _something_ he knows can be helpful.

Heard all their problems, which weren’t much. Their excuse for secrecy was that they didn’t want to burden him while he’s bedridden. Sorry sight he must’ve been back then, still is now, but the scars on his face healed, and the stitches got pulled out and he got _less_ of a sorry sight.

Can’t even make fun of Marston now, kid stayed in bed for a month or two, sure, but he weren’t as pitiful and weak as Arthur was.

“Miss home?” Cal asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead, pulling out his flask and taking a long sip.

“Guess so… ain’t used to being away from them… especially while hurt,” Arthur sighs, rubbing at his eyes, fingers twitching when the scars along his torso flashed in pain. Can’t complain, he reminds himself. The doctor’s been real careful to remind Arthur how _lucky_ he is, between his leg, the infections growing under his skin, and the just general gist of the attack Arthur managed to spit out while fevered; he’d gotten the better part of the possible outcomes.

Didn’t feel like it, but the statistics seemed to have been in favors of killing him. Arthur’s sure the Doctor woulda forced him to pray if he weren’t half dead with a sun high fever.

“I’m sure they’ll be happy you came back,” Cal consoles, extending the flask over to him. Arthur snorts, taking the flask and gulping down a mouthful before resting it on his knee, letting the pain he flared in his side subside.

“Sure,” Arthur agrees, but he knows he’ll face _some_ repercussion for disappearing. Wasn’t too long ago, Dutch told him that  _he’ll_ be the one to betray them, and well, wasn’t this the greatest act of betrayal?

“Well…” Cal sighs, knowing not to press, after all, he’d tried to before, for a whole month, and failed. Barely convinced Arthur not to leave alone, had to physically wrestle him into relaxing till the stitches get out.

“ _Well_ ,” Arthur echoes, leaning into the tree.

Silence is peaceful between them, Cal watching the horses and Arthur staring at the hanging leaves.

-

The ride, for the most part, leaves Arthur bored. He fiddled with the book Charlotte lent him, some murder mystery, thinks he saw A similar one back at camp. Hosea likes ‘em, Arthur never tried to indulge himself into any of them, never really spent time on books outside the ones he was forced to read so he could learn.

So, Evelin Miller, mostly.

Spoilt the fun, reading about the advancements of civilization and how it has ruined freedom, or whatever Evelin said. But this book wasn’t so bad, interesting even, if he let himself admit. If it weren’t for the constant itch in his foot, or the constant burn of the healing scars. 

Could have been worse, in the end. The air starts to fill with the smell of burning coal and horse dung; the chatter traveling up the hill as Charlotte announces with a chirp that they're here. Annesburg, still miserable as he last seen it, at least it hadn't kicked his ass three ways to sunday.

Yet.

Climbing out of the wagon, Charlotte rounding around and greeting him with her usual bright smile, waiting patiently as he steps out, mud squelching under his boot and temper wavering. Hates it, he  _hates it_ the cast on his foot. Crunches were handed to him, and Charlotte fitted a hat over his head, like a child. Arthur mumbles a thanks, knowing it’s better to keep the sun out of his eyes, concussion isn't fully gone yet, and they're reaching high noon. 

"Cal is buying some medicine," she tilts her head, looks towards the store before extending her arm for him.

“You don’t need to waste more money on me,”

“None sense, Arthur,” Charlotte says kindly, always kind, patient too. Arthur wonders where she’d grown her capacity.

Chest coiling with gratefulness, Arthur wobbles, one crutch under his arm and Charlotte’s arm in his other. The stairs were a struggle, but eventually he climbs them. The clerk of the small general store waves at Charlotte, pulling something from under the register. The package is in a wooden crate, a bunch of small wrapped boxes inside.

“Morning, Ms Balfour,” he greets with a smile, crinkly face turning kind as Charlotte leaves Arthur to stare at the stock full shelves.

“Ah, Mr Kline, morning”

Giving no mind to their conversation, Arthur drifts from shelf to shelf, wobbly as his eyes scan the pictures hung on one side of the wall. A woman and a child, the store, and… a poster.

Arthur stares at it, blinking at the familiar face poorly portrayed. “Mr Callahan here,” Charlotte’s name pulls him away for a moment, looking behind him to find that she’s still having a pleasant conversation with the clerk. Arthur looks back, touching the withered paper. Hosea’s face is younger than he is now, but the date seems not too far away. Only at the beginning of the year… around the time they had to escape Maine.

He hadn’t seen a poster of him since Blackwater, wonders if they’re still causing trouble down south. If the Braithwaite-Grey con worked, maybe they’re all the way in California by now, if they got the gold Dutch and Hosea reckon they had.

He doesn’t know if that thought scares him or pleases him.

“Heard they were near Lemoyne,” he hadn’t realized the conversation behind him ceased, some dread tickles his collar as he turns, finds both Charlotte and the clerk, Mr Kline he thinks, looking towards him.

“Lemoyne,” Arthur parrots, and the clerk nods. So they hadn’t moved.

“Been quiet a while now, but them agents, Federal agents, ran by a few weeks back,” Arthur looks back to the poster, “Heard one of ‘em died, too. Someone found a grave, I think it’s a bluff, though,”

“Grave,” Arthur repeats, dread climbing back up where it had been. Someone dead? Is that why they’re quiet? “Huh,” he can only say, “Mind if I take the poster?”

“Son, I ain’t…” Mr Kline looks at him apologetically, “Don’t strike me much as a bounty hunter, you,”

“Don’t let the cast fool you,” Arthur mumbles.

“Don’t be silly, Arthur,” Charlotte tries, but the clerk speaks again.

“Ain’t fooling,” Mr Kline shakes his head, passing a side glance to Charlotte before going back to Arthur, “Which bounty scarred your face, then?”

“Four-legged one,” Arthur mumbles, he turns away, pulling off the poster and giving it one last glance before folding it and stuffing it into his pocket, “I’ll be outside, Mrs Balfour,”

“Oh, I thought we passed the formalities,” Charlotte says quietly, but gives him a nod as he turns to hobble his way out.

“I was wondering when you’ll come back,” Cal greets, loading a crate onto the wagon, “got you some things, here,” a bottle, and a pack of cotton cloths, Arthur leans against the frame of the wagon as Cal pours a bit of the brownish red liquid onto the cloth, then presses it against Arthur’s nose, “Helps with the itchiness and inflammation, Clerk said,”

It burns for a moment against his skin, and the smell isn’t the most pleasant, but as Arthur takes the cotton from Cal and rubs it over the rest of his burning face, he has to admit… it does work.

“You’re spending too much on me,”

“Nonsense,” Cal waves him off.

“Still don’t understand why you won’t let me pay,” Arthur grumbles, sitting on the edge of the Wagon so he would be able to slide  back when it’s time to leave.

“For money, Charlotte and I are well off, we have far more than we need, with the lifestyle we chose…” Cal trails off, “Thought there’s be more hunting and bringing in our own food… but well, much time to learn!” Cal says, flashing a bright smile at Arthur before swooping down to lift a bag Arthur hadn’t noticed.

“The forest around your house has plenty of game, some moose too,”

“Yes, but sadly, seems bears took a liking to it as well as other game,” Cal shakes his head, “and with you, now there're _cougars_ and who knows what else, seemed whenever I picked up my rifle to go hunting, something comes up and tries to eat me,”

“Usually goes like that,” Arthur muses, an idea sparks, and he can feel his back straightening at the promise of repayment, “I can teach you to hunt,” he suggests, and Cal looks at him uncertainly.

“You’re in no shape to be holding a gun or rifle, Arthur,” Cal cajoles softly, like taming a rabid cat, but Arthur shakes his head at him.

“You are,”

“This seems like a bad idea,”

“Not if you’re hunting in Lemoyne,” Arthur argues, “Well, northern Lemoyne, can teach you on some boar, and maybe some deer,”

“I don’t know… your leg,”

“Awh, I’ve done worse with worse injuries, you know, once I was attacked by a bear when I was hunting with my…” He falters, almost speaking Hosea’s name, the poster in his pocket burns a warning, and he quickly fixes his sentence, “With my… Pa, up in Grizzlies east,”

“a bear?” Cal asks, kindly glossing over Arthur’s hesitancy, “And you survived?”

“barely, big feller, it was, sold its pelt for thirty dollars,” Arthur says, maybe a bit boisterous, but who can judge him. He’d even saved a claw and made a trinket for it, that he was going to give to Hosea… now that he thinks about it, it’s in his chest, forgotten after the mess they made in Valentine…

“Damn,” Cal whistles lowly, “So you’re a hunter, then?”

“Hunter, Bounty Hunter, Hire gun, explorer… I go around, do whatever can get us money,” Arthur shrugs, “The life my family leads leaves us no certain profession, whatever you can do, you do it, and it all goes into our savings so we can… buy a ranch, live a normal life,”

“Sounds stressful,” Cal says with a thoughtful look, “good luck, I guess,”

“Thanks,” Arthur tips his head, looking towards the General Store’s door when it bumped open and revealed a smiling Charlotte holding a crate in her hands, the clerk behind her with an equal kind smile.

Lots of people smile here, now that he thinks about it.

Cal and Charlotte just have a happy Aura, he would guess. They brightened even his hardest days, when his stitches would pull and his skin would fever…. Good people.

“All ready, love?” Cal asks, taking the crate from Charlotte’s hands and loading it beside Arthur. Charlotte nods at him, gracefully climbing up on the driver’s seat, and Cal waves at Arthur before he follows her.

Passing Van Horn, and then riding through the yellow-green pastures of Lemoyne, Arthur finds himself growing equal parts fearful and giddy. He doesn’t know what to expect, when he strides back into camp, if they’re still even there. He’d left for so long…

He doesn’t want them to think he left them, stranded them and ran away to find his own ways in the world.

They stop for a meal, Arthur gives a few tips on how to track, and Cal looks mesmerized as Arthur points out the little clues, obvious to him, not so much to Cal. Who had admitted that, while he had gone hunting before, his Pops and Grandpa took most of the reigns, and he had only shot the bullet.

And that’s how Arthur found himself in a bush, beside Cal, on one knee and staring at a doe grazing. Cal was fidgeting with his rifle, checking the cartilage and wiping at the scope as Arthur waits for the right moment. The doe raises its head for a moment, looks towards them curiously, stares at Arthur.

Or through him, almost.

Her antlers were short, but shining in evening light. Cal raises his rifle, waits for Arthur’s signal to shoot. And it’s a good time, it’s probably the best, the doe is still as it will ever be.

But something isn’t right, something is _off_ somehow.

The doe is still looking at him, eyes somehow soft despite being an inky black. Cal looks at him for a second, fidgeting, changing his stance while kneeling before asking “now?”

Arthur traces his tongue over the inside of his teeth, he can’t shake off the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he nods anyway, and the sound of a bullet firing is almost deafening like it never was before. The doe gives a low whine as it falls to the ground, Bullet hitting its throat as it bleeds slowly on the ground. Cal stands victoriously, Arthur following slowly.

It almost feels like he’s been the one shot, the sound of its pained grunts and scared screams as they approach make his heart jitter. He’s a few paces behind Cal, grimacing when he kneeled down to finish it off. It gives a last kick, a low whine, and somehow it ends up staring with its dead eyes at Arthur.

“I actually got it,” Cal says happily, “I actually hunted!”

“Great job,” Arthur says, forcing a smile as Cal looks at him. And well, it isn’t a lie. His shot was on point, critical hit. Doe didn’t even try to up and run away.

“It’s all thanks to you!” Cal claps his shoulder, and stands by him to look down at the carcass.

Well, that’s maybe the last thing he wants to hear.

“Soon you’ll bring ‘em down on your own,” Arthur says, and Cal gives a hearty chuckle. Something burns at the back of his mind, his neck feels too hot, the hair standing as he turns slightly and catches sight of a set of enormous antlers. Strong looking, peaking between the trees, branching and sprawling out of the large stag. Its beady eyes stare at him, accusing, looking off to the dead doe behind him, before raising its head and bringing it down with a whine. Behind him, there’s a click, and he looks to see Cal raising the rifle again.

“no,” Arthur stops him, placing his hand on the muzzle, pushing down the rifle until Cal lets it hang beside him, “We already have what we need,” he says, and Cal nods. The stag shakes its head one last time before turning and hopping away, disappearing between the trees.

“I’ve never seen one so big,” Cal says after a moment, slinging the rifle on his shoulder and turning to carry the downed doe.

Arthur only hums, something odd twisting in his chest as he follows Cal back to where Charlotte sits beside a fire.

By nightfall, they were on the edges of Rhodes.

Arthur switched to sit upfront when Charlotte had fallen tired and decided to catch an hour or two of sleep. Cal and him sat in comfortable silence, but the itch to sketch down the stag that seemed to haunt his thoughts was unbearable. He decided to burn its details into his memory, memorizing its shape so that when he has the chance, he can finally put its image to paper.

Rhodes was mostly asleep when they finally stopped in front of the hotel. Cal turned to Arthur, yawning before smiling tiredly, “We’re here,”

“so we are,” Arthur mumbles as he struggles to climb down the wagon, hobbling a few steps before leaning against the wooden structure of the hotel. Cal wakes up Charlotte with a low mummer and a shake, Arthur waits patiently as they get closer.

“What’s your next move?” Cal asks, arm linked with Charlotte as she wakes up fully. Arthur looks around the dusty town, it feels like an eternity ago that he and Dutch strolled in.

“I don’t know, write a letter, I suppose.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking away the tiredness that creeped at the edges of his eyes.

“I’ll go get us a room,” Charlotte says, giving a pat to Cal’s shoulder before stepping into the hotel. Arthur watches her go, turning to Cal, who has an odd look on his face.

“Everything alright?” Arthur asks, shifting the weight off of his cast foot when it started to twinge in pain.

“It’s going to be odd, going back without you,” Cal admits, “Seems it was only yesterday that I found you,”

“You’ll have your home all to yourself again, ain’t gotta take care of me no more,”, Arthur smiles, and Cal shakes his head.

“We’ll miss you,” Cal says, and Arthur can feel heat rush to his face, “Keep in touch, you’re… well, it was getting lonely out there, and as much as you think you’re a burden, you were actually quite the gift.”

“You don’t mean that,” Arthur scratches at his chin thoughtlessly, looking away, regretting taking off the hat Charlotte spared him. His eyes can’t help but see the sincerity in Cal’s.

“Almost three months now, and you’re still batting away compliments like you’re allergic,” Cal chuckles, brightening when Charlotte comes out of the hotel, “just in time, darling! I was just telling Arthur how much we’ll be lonely without him,”

“Oh, really?” Charlotte moves back in her place beside Cal, linking their arms instantly, “I hope you know that we will, you’re going to be missed,”

“Well… I… I guess I’m honored,” Arthur stutters, “I’ll try to keep in touch,”

“Maybe we can hunt sometime together, teach some of your tricks, how to track!” Cal smiles widely, at the prospect, and Arthur can’t help but crack a smile of his own.

Sure are a happy couple of folk, infectious with their smiles, optimism and general happy moods. Arthur thinks he hadn’t smiled as much as he did in his life as much as he had in these past three months. Charlotte once said that the best antidote to pain was laughter, and she’d tried her best to implement that when his days were hard and long.

And surprisingly it worked.

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, and maybe he’ll actually work on making that happen. As much as he doesn’t like to admit, he… liked being with Cal and Charlotte. It was peaceful when the clouds of pain left him. And he thinks that the couple make great company, Cal had stories of his days back in New York and the like, and Charlotte would like to spurt out the plots to her favorite books. And not once in the past few months had he _actually_ been in a bad mood just because life was awful.

Yet he missed his family, and the need to see them again was stronger than any selfish thought that passed his mind.

“Well, it’s late, I got you your own room for the night, Arthur,” Charlotte extends a key, and another wave of gratitude heats up his face as he takes it gingerly, “and don’t you start on not having to, consider it a farewell gift, for now,”

“I’ll pay you back someday,” he promises and Charlotte leans against Cal.

“Maybe pay it by visiting us,” Charlotte offers, “I’m dead on my feet, tonight,” she says after stifling a yawn, “Good night, Arthur,” her hand briefly pats his arm before she heads back inside, and Cal looks towards the closed general store before looking back again.

“I’ll ask the clerk to get you some pen and paper, and I’ll have him send it to the post office as soon as you have the letter ready,”

“Thank you,” Arthur says quietly and Cal jerks his head in acknowledgment.

“Goodnight, Arthur,”

 

Midnight comes with a warm breeze through his window, and Arthur is still only two lines in on this letter. There’s so much wants to say, so much he _needs_ to say, but… well… how does he start?

_Dear Mr Matthews,_

_So sorry for having gone so long without a word, it seems life catches up with you once you turn your back on it. A lot has happened since our last contact, for one, I can no longer make fun of my brother for his long rests. I’ve only gotten out of bed rest myself._

His pencil taps against the wooden table as he thinks. He needs this to be brief, just tell them that he’s here. He doesn’t want to risk Cal and Charlotte knowing of their campsite, _if_ they’re even still there. God knows they haven’t even been in Blackwater for three months, and with the way Dutch is refusing to lie low, then maybe they’ve moved again.

Almost certainly they did.

It’s a deep-seated feeling he has, as odd as it is, the gang has its presence when it’s somewhere.

_My luck seemed to have spent itself in leading a couple to me, kind one. Helped me get back on my feet._

And that’s as far as he’s willing to involve Cal and Charlotte in this, as much as he trusts the gang, most of their affiliates get in trouble somehow. These folk don’t deserve that, they’re the last people to deserve that.

                            _I’m not far away from the south, residing close to you temporarily, on  the red ground of Rhodes. Though I might not stay, if I don’t find our cousins and siblings. Sadly I can’t ride around, my bullheaded horse had abandoned me after the wicked cougar that chased us got me. As well as I’m in no shape to travel on a steed._

_I fear that when I see you again, I won’t look the same. I hope I see you, soon, that being said. Feel free to visit or respond._

_With regards,_

  1. _M_



He reads it, biting at the end of the pencil as he thinks of anything else he might need to write. His mind comes up blank as he finally folds the paper, and places it gently in the envelope.

The clerk meets him at the foot of the stairs, taking the envelope and promising to send it to the station as soon as he can.

The night passes slowly, even though sleep tugs at him persistently, he can’t help but feel a sort of strangeness in his mind as he readjusts his pillow. It’s probably the softness thing he’s ever laid his head on, but it might as well be a rock as his eyes open again, despite him trying his best to keep them closed.

It’s only past two in the morning when he decides that he can’t stay in the room, and with a gracious grunt, he leaves the bed, shrugging on his clothes with little care and doing his best to make the least noise as he leaves his room, almost falling down the stairs but making it down in one piece.

It feels like someone might jump at him, somehow just a step behind, but the feeling vanishes when he pushes the doors open and takes in a deep breath.

Knots in his stomach disappear, ones he didn’t know ached him till they were gone, and his shoulders fall as he sits on the bench, staring aimlessly at the horses sleeping at the hitching posts. One isn’t, it stares at him, brown eyes lazy and uncaring as it shakes its head, swatting mosquitos away from its braided hair.

He misses his horse.

Quintin and Quinton are great, stubborn but strong and reliable. At least from what Cal has told him. But nothing compares to his horses, _his_. He never really felt entitled to start a bond with Cal’s horses, because they weren’t _his_ , and sooner or later he’d leave them. Orion was a thorn, but he was _his_ and he was under training. Despite what happened, he still hopes nothing got to him, him fleeing was for the best, after all, if Arthur would have died, then he’d prefer his horse have a chance.

He doesn’t have a pack of cigarettes on him, and he doesn’t have… anything, actually. It feels odd now, the lack of satchel by his side, or the missing hat on his head. Wonders where they ended up.

A warm wind swipes by, Arthur taps his foot against the ground as he hopes the minutes pass. There’s a jitter under his skin now, wanting to go do _something_ but he can’t, not really. So… he waits.

The sky is pretty enough to look at.

 

 

“Arthur?” Cal’s voice draws him out of his haze, he blinks, looking at Cal with burning eyes. The sun is just peaking from behind the veil of darkness, and the men and women of Rhodes are starting their usual day. Arthur rubs at his eyes, burning from the sleep that now stabs at the backs of his lids angrily, having been ignored the entire night in favor of trying to sooth his nerves.

“Morning,” Arthur yawns, and Cal sits beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw his attention.

“did you even sleep?”

“I couldn’t,” it’s easy to admit it, now, after months of surveillance, it’s no longer a habit to try and sugarcoat it.

“Well…” Cal looks at the road for a moment before looking back at Arthur “how about a ride?”

“what?” Arthur can feel the surprise radiate from him, but Cal only smiles as he stands up.

“I’m sure you’re strangled by just sitting here all night, and I’d suggest a walk but… well with your foot, it isn’t the most convenient,” Cal laughs nervously, scratching at his cheek before shoving a thumb over his shoulder, “Quinton and Quintin love slow rides, we can just have a short rides around Lemoyne, maybe you can show me some of your hunting spots,”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, eyes squinting from the sun, “Sure,” he agrees, and Cal sighs.

“Great, we won’t do anything that’ll put you in risk of hurting again, it’s just a slow ride,”

“Don’t doubt it,” Arthur mumbles as Cal backs away to fetch the twin horses.

 

Lemoyne was still very hot, just as he had left it. Cal seems happy to soak in the sun as Arthur points out the hot spots for certain animals, a few interesting places too that he’d found while exploring. At one point they pass by Clements Point, and though they were still far off and Arthur wasn’t quite close enough to be sure… he had a feeling they weren’t there.

He shakes it off though, Cal had picked up on his change of mood and quieted down, pausing his questions for a moment as they round back towards Rhodes.

“You don’t talk much about your family,” Cal says, and Arthur frowns as he looks at him in silent confusion, “I mean… you speak _about_ them, but never… about _them_ , like… you know… how they are, _who_ they are.”

Arthur nods, finally understanding. He turns away pointedly, frown deepening when he realized that, he in fact, never really delved into the gang as a personal, never said anything past ‘I need to get back to them’

“Not much to say, really,” and well, that was a lie and a half right there… “well… actually, I don’t know how to start, never had a reason to tell you, I guess,” Arthur tries, and Cal hums beside him.

“What about your father?”

“You want my father, or my _actual_ father. For one, all you’d want to know about my daddy is that he was a bastard, and I never felt bad about watching him swing. ‘cept that I was too young to watch a man hang back then,” It's almost a habit, scowling at the mention of Lyle, “but well… I have two other fathers, and they’re not really… fathers. One of ‘em I’d call a father, the other is more… a mentor or a… boss of some kind,”

Cal stays silent as Arthur looks back at him, a sigh, Arthur continues “I guess my father is…” he almost says his name, but the poster he’d shoved into his pocket springs to mind, and Arthur stumbles over a name to replace his, “Howard…”

…Good enough

“And well… the other…” what was it, Dutch really liked that name… “Hoagie…” never really realized how _stupid_ the name was till now, “Hoagie taught me how to shoot, but… _Howard_ taught me how to hunt, and how to write and mostly how to read, he also taught me a bit of social skills, though I ain’t really… the social type,”

“He sounds like a great man,” Cal says coolly, and Arthur nods solemnly.

“Best man I know, I’d say,” It slips out without much thought, “Hoagie is… too, I guess. He’s… charming, and a smooth talker, always ambitious… and maybe that’s his fault,” Arthur sighs, Dutch is just simply too complicated to be a mindless chatter topic, “have a… brother too… John,” at least he doesn’t need an alias, for all the shit he spurred, John Marston doesn’t have a high a bounty as say… him, Dutch or Hosea. “Kind of a dumbass, but… he’s smart in his own way,” and he’d die three deaths before he ever says it in front of John.

“Younger?”

“Yeah, ten years,” Arthur squeezes the reigns, “Was a skimpy orphan when H-… Howard and Hoagie adopted him, feral little kid. Hated him for a bit, but well… he grew on me.”

“and now?”

“Now…” Arthur can feel his heart sink when he realizes, “It’s a bit tense between us,” he admits, “but… I’d die for him, if I have to… ‘sides, he has a… a wife and kid,”

“Oh?”

“He ain’t treating them well, thinks the child ain’t his, but… I don’t know, I trust his woman when she says the kid is his,” Arthur goes to adjust his hat, hand dropping when he remembers, “but… he’s a good kid, at heart, maybe stubborn as a mule and as… as dull as a rusted spoon, but he’s… good,”

“What about you?” Cal asks, and Arthur raises an eyebrow, “Do you… have a wife?”

Ah… there it is. Something he’d been dreading to answer.

“No,” he says simply, and he thinks maybe that’s where he should cork it but… he feels like Cal is as safe as he can be for now, might as well answer his question completely, “I had a kid… but he… he passed away, and his mother… she weren’t really my wife. We weren’t in love or nothin’. She was more… a dear friend that got caught up in my mistakes,” his heart hammers at the memories, of a little child calling for him and a woman who’d write him long letters about his son, her, and their life.

“I’m sorry,” Cal reaches a hand to rest on Arthur’s shoulder, “losing a kid… that must be… awful,”

“It was… still is, don’t talk much about him but… I… I loved him, you know. Had to be with my father, and Hoagie, and I still sometimes think… if was just a few days early for my visit, maybe I’d have saved them, or died with ‘em” He’s getting choked up just saying it, throat squeezing around itself and eyes starting up a water work, so he straightens his back, “and I almost married, you know, a woman I truly loved and thought she loved me,”

“it didn’t work out,” Cal predicts and Arthur gives a humorless chuckle, “I’m sorry Arthur, really,”

“It’s fine,” Arthur sucks in a breath, “I don’t… now, that I’m… not as young and blind as I was, I know we wouldn’t have worked out,” it’s something he never spoke to anyone, not even Mary. But he knew, after that visit when he got Jamie, she was… “she’s a high society lady, born into wealth with a bastard of a father who wouldn’t have even agreed for me to take her hand in marriage,” he says, “and I was… a random, poor, Twenty something year old with no stable job and no stable home. She wouldn’t have been happy if we had somehow got married,” he admits, “so I guess…”

“It was for the best?”

“Yeah,”

Rhodes wasn’t too far off now, can see the chimneys smoking. “I’m sorry if I dragged any… bad memories, I didn’t know…”

“I understand,” Arthur interrupts, “My life has been… a long one, but it has a lot of good parts, I just… somehow always end up remembering the worst,”

“maybe… talk about the best parts, then,” Cal says, and Arthur chuckles again, “seriously, how about this,” he stops Quintin, and he snorts underneath him for a second before swooping down to chew on the grass without hesitation, “let’s swap good stories, I’ll start, my favorite childhood story is…” a faraway look in his eyes, Cal stares off into the distance for a moment before his eyes snap to Arthur, “My mom, she’d let me run in the forest with our dog, Hester, for hours in the summer. One evening, I found a school of fish in a small pond, and I watched them for hours while Hester rolled in the mud,” by the end of the story, a wide, bright smile was radiating off of Cal’s lips, “now it's your turn”

“Uh,” Arthur says stupidly, racking his mind for something he did as a child, the earliest happy memory… “My family… my mother was a Welsh woman, so we’d celebrate Christmas in the traditional way… it's, um, the details are foggy, but there was a mask involved and a song, and she’d always carry me when it’s finished and let swing me around… and… I guess, that’s… the only time I really thought I could fly,” it’s a small memory, foggy and brown around the edges. That was… some… twenty seven, twenty… nine? Years ago. Long time…

“I never knew the Welsh celebrated in a different way,” Cal says, spurring Quintin on, “Charlotte is of English decent, her great grandmother, if I’m recalling correctly. I don’t know about myself, we’re… pure American as far as I know,”

“Hundred percent red blooded American,” Arthur mumbles under his breath, but Cal hears and snorts, “nothing better,”

“or worse,”

At the edges of Rhodes, Cal stops again, head tilting with a deep look on his face, Arthur follows his line of sight, heart almost stopping when he spots them.

Black coats, bowler hats and a smug stance.

Pinkertons, _shit_.

“Those men look… like trouble,” Cal says thoughtlessly, Arthur doesn’t respond, feeling all too faint to be on a horse.

He can’t defend himself, he can only hope… they forgot how he looked like. Hopes the never notice him. He’s got no guns… he can’t ride faster than a canter without hurting himself, and maybe the horse. He sure as shit can’t put Cal and Charlotte in a position where they can get hurt.

He doesn’t want to get jailed either, but… but…

“Arthur? Arthur, hey!” Cal slaps his shoulder, and Arthur blinks back to reality, where the Pinkertons were still looking around, “you okay?” Cal asks and Arthur nods stiffly, suppressing the need to flee when he caught eyes with one of the Pinkertons.

They walk towards them, Cal shifts on Quintin, Quinton grunts under Arthur, and only then does he notice how tight he’d been pulling on the reins.

“Sorry, boy,” Arthur whispers, leaning down to release the reigns and give an apology in the form of a pat.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” Arthur freezes, looking up sharply, bile rising in his throat when he finds that the two Pinkertons were now only a few feet away.

They weren’t Milton and his friend, but… but still, their badges shone a warning that scathed Arthur’s nerves.

“Yes?” Cal replies when Arthur stays silent long enough.

“Would you mind answering some questions? I’m Agent Luis, this is my partner, Agent Henry, we’re with the Pinkerton detective agency, we were wondering if you’ve seen anything out of the ordinary around here?” Agent Luis says, and Cal shakes his head.

“I’m afraid we haven’t, we got here late in the evening of yesterday, haven’t been around much,” He answers truthfully, and Arthur bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something stupid.

“And your friend?”

“He’s been with me and my wife, we came down from Annesburg,” Agent Luis nods thoughtfully, eyes darting between Arthur and Cal before he gives a sigh, “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“A dangerous gang, I’m sure you’ve heard if them. The Van Der Linde’s,” Agent Luis replies, and Arthur sucks in another breath, Agent Henry looks at him, squints for a stressful moment before pointing to his own face.

“Look like they hurt,” he says. Arthur could only stare as the words caught up to him. He wasn’t getting recognized, not yet.

“uh,” he clears his throat, “they… they do,” he stutters out, slapping himself mentally when Agent Luis raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” Agent Luis says after a moment, “we won’t bother you much anymore, gentlemen,” Arthur almost melts in relief, “just one more thing, what’s your names?” he asks and Arthur can feel his heart explode in his chest.

“Cal Balfour, Arthur Callahan,” Cal answers for him, and the agents nod, writing them down before looking up again, giving a formal smile.

“Alright, sorry for interrupting your day, Mr Balfour, Mr Callahan, we’ll be on our way now,” Agent Luis excuses.

“Stay safe,” Agent Henry says, following as Agent Luis whistles for his horse.

“Goodbye,” Cal gives a little wave, waiting till the agents are gone before letting out a heavy sigh, “Christ, I never committed a crime in my life, but I still felt like I was going to get arrested,”

“mhm,” Arthur agrees wordlessly as he spurs Quinton on.

“You alright, Arthur?”

“Peachy,” Arthur replies, tone high with the lie.

“You look pale,” Cal says, and Arthur can only hold himself together by shutting up, “are you worried about that gang they’re looking for? I’ve heard they’re around these parts, but they’ve been quiet… and there’s loads of lawmen around Lemoyne, I’m sure we’ll be safe,” Cal consoles, and Arthur nods numbly, some humorous part of him wants to tell Cal how _they_ were some of those lawmen he’s so assured because. He doesn’t, Arthur throws the reigns onto the hitching post, almost falling off of the saddle in his haste to get inside the hotel and catch his breath. Maybe find his bearings and calm down.

He hasn’t felt this panicked in a while, unarmed, unable to run, shackled in his place by his cast and his lack of anywhere to go.

“Arthur?” that’s Charlotte calling his name, Arthur looks at her, spots the newspaper she’d set down on her lap as a confused and concerned look graces her features, “is everything alright?”

“Everything is okay,” Arthur lies, “I didn’t sleep… that’s it, just need a bit of rest before going on with my day,” he lies _again_ , but it flows out easily and… well… it’s only a half of a lie.

“oh, alright then, when you wake up we can get lunch,” she suggests, the worried look never completely fading but only lowering in intensity.

“That would be lovely,” Arthur replies, feeling his stomach flip inside his stomach in protest, “now, if you’ll excuse me,”

“sleep well,” Charlotte calls after him as he hastily shoulders open the hotel door, climbing up the stairs even though the speed hurts his ankle, and he almost slams his door shut as he leans against it.

Takes in a deep breath, and a second on, leaning his head against the door as a small trickle of relief courses through him. At least there’s a wall between him and his crimes now.

 _Fucking Pinkerton_.

 

By the evening, he was laying in his bed, finally teetering on the edge of sleep, having excused his lunch with Charlotte and Cal. He’s almost ready to finally sleep when he hears it. The sound of thundering hooves and the silence of the streets. It’s concerning enough that Arthur looks out the window, blinks as the horses come into view, and while his heart had already been hammering, it feels like it’s about to burst now as the snowy stallion comes into his view, followed by the silver horse.

And their riders…

“Hosea…” he whispers to himself, looking only for a moment more before taking off, forgetting his jacket as he stumbles down the stairs in his rush maybe skips over one or two, almost crashes into the clerk who’d been looking out of the window.

There are two other horses he hadn’t noticed, and once he’s out there, he can feel the breath steel in his chest when Dutch catches his eyes.

“Arthur?” he says, disbelieving almost and Arthur only hobble closer. Dutch slides off of the count, almost running into Arthur and crashing into a hug that threatens to crack Arthur’s spine, “it really _is_ you,” he says, squeezing even more. Arthur wheeze out a laugh, bringing his arms around Dutch to return the hug.

“Arthur?” Hosea calls from behind him, and Arthur turns with a smile, faltering when he finds Hosea’s eyes watery, “I-we,” He stutters, “we thought you were _dead_ ,” he says, almost accusingly, but it’s only a few moments after that he’s crushing Arthur just like Dutch did.

He’s sure they’re making a scene, but Arthur could really care less, pieces finally slotting together. The Annesburg clerk… the dead gang member…

Him?

Somehow he never thought of that… he knew that he was alive…

“I’m… I… I didn’t know,” He spits out, voice weak with giddiness and relief, “I-I got into a bad way after a shootout in Van horn… then this cougar followed me and… and well, you can see what it did,” he waves at his face, the scars that are healing slowly, “and for a long time I couldn’t stay awake for long enough to write a letter, then I got caught up with learning to use my hands and feet again and-and as soon as i-“

“hey, hey, slow down,” Hosea shushes, “I’m… I’m just glad you’re alive, we… we really thought you was dead,”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur apologizes, but Hosea just smiles at him. Over his shoulder, Arthur spots John standing quietly beside Charles, both looking like deer in a thunderstorm. Arthur can’t help but smile even wider, not realizing how badly he truly missed seeing them.

 _Them_ , his family.

Any doubt he had about going back had dissipated, blown away by the terrible amount of relief that courses through his joints as he limps over to John, stands in front of him for a moment before John crashes into him, making him stumble back a step before he realizes that the kid is hugging him.

“You son of a bitch,” He whispers, cheek firmly pushing against Arthur’s shoulder, John pulls back quickly, hands gripping Arthur’s arms, eyes ablaze as he whisper shouts, “I mourned you, you-you… you _asshole_ ,” John balls his fist, bringing them close to his face before dropping them, shoulder sagging almost instantly, and Arthur opens his arms as an invitation for a _proper_ hug this time.

John takes it graciously.

“To be fair, I thought I was dead too,” Arthur says after a moment, and John makes a noise of general acknowledgment before pulling away, sighing before looking down at his feet.

“I… missed you,” he admits, like it’s a sin he must confess and Arthur snorts.

“Missed you too, little brother,” and with that, shrugging off the shocked expression John throws him, he moves on to the final man.

Charles stands stiffly by Taima, eyes casted away, not meeting Arthur’s until he’s almost a step away. “Charles,” Arthur starts, “I… I’m-“

“I should’ve looked for you,” he interrupts, “I… Javier and I… we should’ve… we could’ve found you, we-“

“It wasn’t your fault,” Arthur is quick to say, “Cal found me and brought me up to his house, and that’s… that’s far away from where I told you I was going,” a hand on his shoulder, Charles finally let’s his shoulders relax, “if anything… I’m glad you didn’t find me, I…don’t want you to ever see me like I was back there,”

“worse than the O’driscolls?” Charles asks, and Arthur grimaces, “I’m glad you’re alive,” Charles says with an understanding shake of his head, “we all are, when we got the letter… we… we thought it was a trap, or… some type of sick joke. More wanted to ride in with us, but… would have caused a scene,”

“Seems that happened anyway,” Arthur retorts, and Charles gives a small smile.

“We’re just happy to have you back, Arthur,”

Cal and Charlotte call for him, walking up with a smile as Arthur looks away from Charles. He looks at Charlotte, then at Hosea, and decides to try and lead them away.

“I think you need to keep Hosea and Dutch away,” Arthur whispers to Charles, who gives him a strange look, having very little time to explain, he picks the poster out of his pocket, pressing it into Charles’ palm before heading to meet the Balfour half way.

“Oh! Are these your family?” Charlotte asks giddily. Arthur nods, looking behind him to see Charles usher Hosea and Dutch back to their horses. Poster now in Dutch’s hand, their eyes meet.

“Some of them,” Arthur replies after a second, “That’s John, my brother that I told you about, Cal,”

John, spurred by the sound of his name awkwardly slinks by. Standing beside Arthur stiffly, never one to meet new people.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, John,” Cal says with a grin, extending a hand, “I’m glad you’re here, we haven’t talked much, Arthur and us, about how he was planning on going on. But I would’ve felt awful leaving him here, with no means to find you,”

John only nods with a thin smile, and Arthur rolls his eyes as he steps into the conversation, “remember when I said I’m not the social type? John is even less of a one, talk to him about wolves though,” a stupid smug smile grows on his lips as John visibly groans beside him.

“You come back from the dead and you’re _still_ an asshole,” John whines, and Arthur’s smile only grows wider, “but uh… I’m assuming you’re… the couple that saved Arthur? I… I’m sure… the _rest_ of the family would want you to know that… we’re grateful,” John ends it with a nod as Cal and Charlotte look at Arthur for a moment.

“It was nothing, really, once he came to, Arthur was a delight,”

John snorts.

“Shut it, Marston,” Arthur mumbles and Cal gives a warm smile as Arthur steps closer to the Balfour’s.

“I think… well, for a bit, until I get the cast off, I won’t be able to visit,” Arthur starts, “but I will, eventually, if you want,”

“We’d be delighted to have you around sometime, seriously,” Charlotte says, “we can write, for the mean time, you know the address,”

“and you know my name,” Arthur replies, “so I guess,”

“this is goodbye?” Cal sighs, but gives a smile, “we’ll miss you, but we’re glad you found your folk again,”

“I’m glad too,” Arthur says, finding himself extending a hand for Cal to shake. Cal takes it, but pulls Arthur into a hug, giving his back a gentle pat before letting go. Charlotte raises her arms to wrap around Arthur’s shoulders, hugging him briefly before pulling back, pausing to land a kiss on Arthur’s cheek before stepping back completely.

Surprised, Arthur only smiles as he steps away, having really… nothing that needs to be packed, he’s gives a final wave to the couple before turning to Dutch and the others.

“ready to go?” Hosea asks, and Arthur nods, reaching a hand to hang onto Hosea before raising himself to sit behind him.

“seem like nice people,” Dutch says, tone awfully sincere.

“they are,” Arthur confirms, “saved my life,”

The ride was… surprisingly silent, moving away from Rhodes and in the opposite direction of where Clements point is. His suspensions confirmed when they ventured into a woody area, not too far away from the Grey’s property.

Then the place starts to look familiar.

“ain’t this the mansion Lenny and I cleared?” he asks as the four horses slow down to a trot.

“Yeah,” John answered, “we should probably warn you…”

“we haven’t told anyone about your letter, so… they still think you’re… dead,” Hosea explains, “I’d say tread lightly and expect the most”

“noted,” Arthur nods, “you really buried me?”

“how’d you know?” Dutch asks.

“some clerk said so, said someone found the grave, reported it back to Pinkertons as far as I know.” Arthur says, “speaking of,” he remembers, finally realizing what was missing from the letter, “Pinkertons are searching all the way up to Annesburg now, met one in Rhodes too just a few hours ago”

“They know where we are?” Arthur shakes his head, and Dutch nods, “good”

“they still think you’re close to Rhodes,”

“let them think that, for as long as possible,” Hosea chimes in, “for now, let’s not talk about those things, let’s just… I just want to… celebrate Arthur’s return, how about that?”

“sounds like a plan,” Arthur mumbles, excitement simmering under his skin again as they pass over the bridge and John jumps off Old Boy’s back.

“Everyone!” he shouts, “We found him! We found Arthur!” He announces, and for a moment Arthur swears he’d gone deaf with the amount of questions that flooded his ears. Hosea slides off the saddle, and once in view, the rest of the gang start to get closer.

“Hosea,” Arthur says, waving at his casted ankle and watching as Hosea realizes what he’s asking for, extending a hand to help him down.

The shouts don’t cease, not even when several people tug at Arthur to smother him in a hug, some asking about where he’d been, some asking what he’d been doing, the scars, the cast.

Not one person gives him actual time to answer.

It starts to get overwhelming, but he holds his tongue as the people around him get their fill of hugs and questions out.

“alright, alright,” he hears Dutch say, “folk, _calm down!”_ he finally bellows, and the people slowly step back, “Don’t kill the kid, he just came back, we have plenty of time to get our questions answered,” Dutch calmly convinces, and the gang nod.

“How about some stew!” Pearson asks, and almost on command, Arthur’s stomach rumbles despite giving no forewarning. Embarrassed, Arthur shrugs as Pearson hops past, towards his station.

“Come on, son,” Dutch beckons, and Arthur follows as they move towards the camp fire. Taking a seat, Arthur finds Javier holding his guitar out and walking towards them.

“A celebration!” he shouts, and the rest all agree loudly, “to Arthur’s return!”

“To Arthur!” they shout back, and Arthur ducks his head, feeling even more embarrassed now.

Breaking into a tune, Hosea and Dutch stand on either side of him as Pearson shoves a bowl and spoon into his hand, the smell of warm stew finally digging in the last bit of reassurance he needed.

He’s back home, now.

“Welcome home, son,” Hosea says, close to Arthur’s ear, and only a second after does he feel his hand over his head, then it rests on his shoulder.

“it’s…it’s good to be back,” Arthur admits, smiling at Grimshaw when she sat beside him, her hand quickly covering his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy late new years y'all


End file.
